All is Fair in Love and War
by Emari-chan
Summary: A BBC Sherlock/John fanfiction. SPOILERS FOR SEASON THREE. Moriarty is back, and everyone knows it. A tragedy strikes the Watson household. Dozens of little crimes pop up all over London. A Minister of Parliament vanishes. What does it all mean? And meanwhile, England's favorite flatmates are forced to re-evaluate the extent of their live-in relationship. Johnlock slash.
1. Prologue

Hello, internet. This is my first Sherlock fanfic, so please do give me as much constructive criticism as humanely possible. Likewise, it's slash (imagine that). If John and Sherlock being in a relationship is a problem for you, you may not want to read this. On that note, I should likewise add that I intend this to be the darkest story I have written to date. Expect character death, torture, violence, sexual themes, and etcetera. Enjoy.

* * *

Prologue

**JIM MORIARTY**

It shouldn't have surprised anybody.

It did, of course. That was half the fun of it.

But it shouldn't have.

Who would believe that I, of all people, would throw my life away for the sake of a childish rivalry? Apparently all of London had. Even _he_ did, and he wasn't even ordinary. Pitiful.

Why would it shock anyone to learn that I had faked my own death when _he_ had done the same? Apparently, it makes more sense to fake your death by leaping from the top of a hospital than it does to blow your brains out. Obvious, really. Obvious and _boring_.

I don't _do_ boring. Hence the roof. Hence the gun. Hence_ not being dead_. Psych! No-one saw _that_ coming.

Not London.

Not Mycroft.

Not Mary.

Not Johnny-boy.

Not _him_.

Not The Virgin.

Not Sherlock Holmes.

I rubbed the bandages behind my ears. They bloody itched. The surgeon would make them not itch, if he knew what was good for him. Still, all things considered, it was a small price to pay for a continued mortal existence. Sherlock was stupid. If he'd been paying more attention to me and less to how to beat me, then he might've seen the telltale scars behind the lobule, even in spite of the makeup. He might've guessed the ruse - that it wasn't me at all.

It wasn't hard, finding someone to blow their head off for me. All you have to do is threaten their entire family, and suddenly you can have a whole line of people waiting to commit suicide for you. So much for sentiment.

A scalpel, a hairline cut, a cautious shifting of skin, of hair, of follicles. If you have the money, plastic surgery can make you a twin in two hours. One, if the surgeon is good. And he had to be good. I couldn't let just any street corner doctor wannabe swap my beautiful face out for an afternoon. I had to be good, too. It was hard, finding someone in England who was my stature, weight, and hair color with a loving wife and children that could be bumped off if compliance even looked like it might be an issue.

Harder still was finding someone who sounded like me. Oh, that was dull. Hours and hours of CCTV feed, audio enabled, waiting for that special someone. I found him, of course. In a world of nine billion people, statistics demands that there be someone genetically similar to you _somewhere_.

The rehearsal was _boring_. It was fun at first to watch him shake and cry, but it got so dull so quickly. It was important, though. I couldn't let Sherlock doubt the authenticity of the Moriarty in front of him for even a millisecond. So we practiced, he and I. I invented the most probable dialogue. I gave him a flesh-colored ear mike, invisible to the naked eye. I sat in one room, he in another, and relayed instructions. How to sit. What to say. Sometimes even when to blink.

I knew it was unimaginative, that I was repeating myself. But this time, there were no bombs. No semtex. Just two men on a roof, one of whom had a little voice buzzing in his ear.

The test run was the visit to Baker Street after the trial. It hadn't been hard to swap our places in prison the night before. It hadn't even been vaguely challenging. How Scotland Yard kept anybody at all under lock and key was a mystery. He didn't have to speak at the trial - that was the point. The jury gave the verdict - not guilty. Surprise, surprise.

I walked him out of the courthouse. I had him hail a cab. He entered 221B, paused on the stair when I told him to. The conversation with Sherlock went flawlessly. I'd predicted most of it ahead of time, of course. The bit with the apple was improvised, the minute my camera angle showed them sitting on the table, but he handled it perfectly. Funny how having one's entire life on the line can do that to a man.

And on the rooftop - perfect. A story well-told drawn to conclusion. My mimic spilled his brains all over the roof and Sherlock jumped. The balance of probability said that there were 16 ways the detective could have survived, if he were clever enough to think of them all. So then it became the Great Waiting Game. Two years passed, and I saw signs of my magnum opus, my global crime syndicate, falling to pieces. Not dead, then. Good.

Sherlock Holmes is not ordinary.

When my Twitter account started blowing up with #SherlockLives, I knew it was time to start watching. I watched, and I found an ally. Someone new, but not new.

Someone unexpected.

Someone in media.

I liked Magnussen. He knew how to play. He was creative. It was his proposal to have Johnny-boy kidnapped. Not the most original idea, I grant you, but crashing the kids' Bonfire Night party was a clever touch, and it sure was cute watching Sherlock pull his pet out from the flames.

Oh, that video. Mmm. There was artistry there. The panic in the detective's eyes as his poor dear heart burned - literally burned - was like listening to my own personal orchestra reach crescendo. If he would have known I was watching, I'm sure he could have appreciated the irony.

I wasn't sad to see Magnussen die.

He was clever.

He knew how to play.

And that was the problem, really. He was in too good a position to try and unseat me. Had Sherlock perished as I'd intended, then fighting the businessman would have been an acceptable distraction. As it was, I had bigger fish to fry, so I watched Sherlock pull the trigger and knew it was my turn.

There was a new game to play.

The stakes were higher.

The pawns were on the front lines, within shooting distance.

_Did you miss me?_

I knew he had.

_Did you miss me?_

He was nothing without me.

_Did you miss me?_

It would appear that I still owed Sherlock Holmes a fall.

And now, thanks to Magnussen, I knew exactly where to begin.

* * *

**JOHN WATSON**

It was a Thursday, just past mid-afternoon. John sighed, sweeping his eyes for the umpteenth time over the corpse sprawled on the floorboards. Obvious death by strangulation - _Even I could see as much_, he thought blithely - but what no-one could fathom was how the murderer had gotten into the room. Sherlock had not been interested initially, bored by the recent upswing in locked-room mysteries, but upon surveying the crime scene, he was forced to admit it was intriguing.

_A lone man, 45, overweight, presumable liver damage, walks into an abandoned manor house on the edge of London and locks all the doors and windows from the inside. There are no other apparent openings into the building; besides there being no skylights to speak of, the fireplace was walled in a few years ago. 48 hours later, the man is found dead by the groundskeeper, an elderly fellow with the only key to the house._

Lestrade had detained the groundskeeper on the premise that, self-admittedly, he was the only one with the key and ergo the only one who could have entered, killed the victim, and left, securing the door behind him. Sherlock, however, had dismissed that theory immediately upon seeing the suspect. The gardener was old, ailing, and though still wiry from years of yard work, certainly in no condition to asphyxiate a younger, if slightly obese, man.

Sherlock, having once interrogated the groundskeeper, who knew nothing of the affair and had seen no-one suspicious on or near the premises, turned to the crime scene itself. The old manor was deserted and had been for nearly two decades. The bank owned the property and the gardener's salary was paid by a contracted trust fund left by the deceased owner. The old man came in once a week to trim the grass and the shrubbery. Once upon a time, he had also touched up the paint, but age had taken his ability to climb a ladder, and so the white trim was flaking and the siding had definitely seen better days. It was, in John's opinion, altogether spooky.

Sherlock first went over every inch of the landscape, front and back. All the evidence suggested that no-one had approached the house but the victim in the last week, which corroborated the gardener's claim that he hadn't been in since the previous week's Tuesday. Sherlock announced that some workmen had passed by yesterday morning, judging by the imprint of the boots in the rain-softened gravel road, but that they too were free of suspicion as they had continued south away from the manor, and anyway, the murder had occurred two days prior, not one.

Inside the house, things were even more dilapidated than the exterior. There was an utter dearth of furniture - the DI's records showed that everything had been auctioned off after the last owner's funeral. The oak floor was molding and bowed with damp, and though there were fittings for the electric light, there were no bulbs in any of the light sockets.

The body lay face-down in the center of the living room, a thin, purpling bruise running around his neck like a mocking piece of jewelry.

"Suicide?" Lestrade suggested. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched.

"Hardly. Observe - the bruising is more severe on the back of the neck. Had he strangled himself, the bruises would have been most noticeable on his front, unless you're telling me that he succeeded in reaching around his considerable girth and choked himself from behind. Besides, if he did this himself, then where's the weapon? No cord, no rope, no chain... Surely even you can see quite plainly that whoever did this was behind the victim."

"Yeah, alright, fair enough," Lestrade grumbled. "So how did they do it, then? The killer?"

The dark-haired detective frowned. "Give me a moment."

John and the detective inspector watched in silence from the doorway as Sherlock padded around the room's perimeter, taking note of everything - the length of the floorboards, the pattern of mold clinging to the plaster walls, the height of the useless chandelier off the floor - and though the doctor had seen him do it countless times on countless cases, he still could not fathom what conclusion the detective would draw from the scant evidence.

"John," Sherlock said eventually. "Remind me what we know about the victim."

Lestrade withdrew a Manila folder from his briefcase and handed it to the blonde man. He'd perused the contents this morning, but for those mere mortals without a mind palace, it was nice to have a reference sheet.

"Uh, George Rockwell," John read, "45 years old, and working as a tube driver for the last ten. He had a wife, Linda, and an eighth-year boy named -"

"Right, that'll do." Sherlock cut him off, not even bothering to look up from his examination of the deceased. "Rockwell was using his position as a tube driver to run a small smuggling operation - nothing major, probably fine jewelry forgeries, judging by his ring. You can see from the contents of his pockets that he was a gambler - a casino card, for starters, and a personalized die. A gambler, then, who forges jewelry. Likely put one of his pieces down as a wager and got himself in over his head when the fellow he played learned about the swappery."

"Brilliant." John had said it, and it was true. Sherlock put two and two together and didn't just get four - he got four and the life story of the guy who'd posed the equation.

"But that doesn't solve it, does it?" an exasperated detective inspector exclaimed. "How did the killer get in?"

"Simple," Sherlock replied, smacking his lips in satisfaction. "There is absolutely no way that the killer could have broken into the house after Rockwell was inside."

"Then why -"

"So he was here earlier?" John asked, cutting in. "The killer beat Rockwell to the house?"

"Exactly," Sherlock nodded. "They probably set up a meeting in advance to settle the issue - something like 'bring what you owe to the old Shadwell manor on Tuesday, or else'. The killer got to the house before Rockwell, and either let the victim barricade himself inside before he strangled him or locked everything up after he finished the job as a blind. He had a copy of the gardener's key with him to lock the door on his way out. And there it is. Arrest Matthew Saltzberg on the charge of hiring an assassin to solve his personal problems, and you'll have a case fitted."

Lestrade gaped at the detective. "Saltzberg? The director of the leading arts emporium in central London? And how could you possibly know the killer had another key? I swear you make these things up to infuriate the rest of us."

Sherlock groaned. "Yes, Gray, that Saltzberg."

"Greg."

"Whatever. He's the only frequenter of The Sportsman Casino with a good reason to accept a silver bracelet as a wager."

"A silver bracelet?"

"Obviously. As for the key -" Sherlock withdrew a gold key on a nylon cord from his coat pocket and tossed it to the detective inspector. "There's your key and your murder weapon. I found it in the tools shed. The assassin was trying to frame the gardener and dispose of his materials at the same time. The key is not the groundskeeper's - look at the metal, it's brand-new. And the weave of the cord matches the bruise pattern on the victim."

"So who's the assassin?" I asked, jotting down Sherlock's explanations on my phone's notepad app.

The detective shrugged. "It's a professional job. No identifying insignia. Could be any number of people. The only way to know for sure is to arrest Saltzberg."

"Right." Lestrade clapped his hands and nodded to the forensics team, who were waiting with varying degrees of patience outside. "That's that, then. Thanks for the help, Sherlock."

The taller man smirked. "What would you do without me, Lestrade?"

"Have fewer spontaneous inclinations to sock you one, for starters."

"Sherlock." I motioned to the detective. "Come on. I'll call a cab, yeah?"

He followed me, but at the door turned back to the DI.

"Do let me know when you've got Saltzberg, would you? I've a few questions I need to see him answer."

...

Inside the cab at last, John leaned back into the black leather seat and exhaled slowly.

"That's the fifth mystery in as many days," he remarked, eyes closed. "You're doing a fair job keeping busy for a change."

"Mmm. It passes the time."

"You alright?"

"Mmm."

Tilting his head slightly, John could see his flat-mate staring pensively out the window.

"I mean, it's just that something so trivial doesn't usually appeal to you."

Sherlock turned to him then, a dark eyebrow arching.

"Are _you_ attempting to deduce something about _me_, Doctor?" He asked it with a hint of a smile, but John could hear the curiosity masked behind the question.

"You're worried," the doctor replied simply. He could see immediately from the way the detective's brow creased that it was true. Sherlock shifted back to the window, hiding his face from sight. When at last he spoke, his voice was quiet.

"Moriarty made a spectacle of his apparent come-back, but he hasn't been in touch. I keep thinking that perhaps these little crimes are somehow hints, clues into his next big scheme, but if they are, then I'm afraid I can't see his game. So yes, I am... concerned."

It was his choice of words that left John more apprehensive than anything else. Sherlock Holmes was not afraid of anything. The doctor did not reply, but spent the remainder of the return trip watching his companion out the corner of his eye. The cab dropped the detective off at 221B, Baker Street, and, as per the usual, John ended up paying the other man's fare. At his request, the cabbie then took the doctor home as well.

Number 5, Elvanston Street was a quiet, first floor apartment in Kensington, not far from Hyde Park. The Watsons went walking there sometimes when the sun had burned off the London fog. Mary herself came to greet her husband at the door, having seen the cab stop, and John kissed her briefly, tenderly.

"Afternoon, love," she said, drawing John into the small living room. "I wasn't expecting you to be home until late. Did Sherlock solve it quickly, then?"

John chuckled. "'Course he did. It barely took him half an hour to examine the grounds, and then five minutes looking at the body. We spent more time driving out there and back than we did actually at the crime scene."

"Bloody pleased with himself, too, I'd imagine," she laughed.

The doctor paused, frowning. Her words reminded him suddenly of the conversation in the taxi. "Pleased, certainly," John said slowly. "You know how he is. But he's worried, too. Moriarty has to be planning something, and Sherlock doesn't know what."

"Well, that'll drive him straight up the wall, won't it?" Mary said, still smiling, albeit more gently. "Not knowing? At least it'll keep him from getting bored. No more holes in the wall for Mrs. Hudson."

"True." John stretched, pulling off his overcoat and tossing it over the back of the settee. "Where's Sheryl?"

This time, Mary's smile turned mischievous. John loved to watch her; her face was so expressive. He felt sometimes that, no matter how mysterious her past, her life's story was written in her features to read if he cared to look hard enough. Was that how Sherlock felt all the time?

"Sheryl's upstairs," Mary replied. "She wouldn't stop crying, so I laid her in her crib and put in that CD of Sherlock playing the violin."

"Ahh." Once again, John too was smiling. Their daughter loved nothing better, it seemed, than to listen to her namesake's music.

"She's sleeping like a baby now."

"'Course." The doctor clapped his hands together. "Come on, love, let's do dinner tonight. We can go out, do something nice for a change."

"Or," Mary said, wrapping her arms around his waist and pulling him to her, "we could do dinner in. Light some candles, enjoy the atmosphere..."

Her lips closed over her husbands, a gesture which he appreciated fully, but which was interrupted by a soft whine from the bedroom.

"Ah, she'll be hungry again," Mary sighed.

"It's probably for the best," John answered gravely. "Snogging each other like a couple of teenagers is exactly how we ended up with her in the first place."

"Alright, alright," his wife giggled. "We'll do it your way and go out for dinner. But you get to carry the diaper bag tonight."

"Done and done," John said cheerfully. "Where shall we go?"

* * *

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

_Where are you?_

Musty-damask-wallpaper-that-went-out-of-style-but-Mrs.-Hudson-likes-because-it-reminds-her-of-her-childhood backed cheap-computer-paper-John-bought-because-he's-having-financial-issues-but-is-too-embarrased-to-tell-me-about-it printed with water-soluble-black-and-white-inkjet-printer-ink. The pictures showed Jenny-a-homeless-girl-who-frequents-Trafalgar-Square-because-the-patrons-tend-to-be-generous, and Bruce-the-drugs-dealer-from-Wales-who-moved-here-to-escape-prosecution-after-a-gunfight, and a dozen other indicator-persons connected to one another by pins-and-red-linen-strings-of-webbing-tying-together-the-web-of-the-underworld.

Somewhere in that criminal web sat a spider. A resurrected spider. A spider with its web trashed, who even now would be spinning sticky threads of threats and bribes, trying to rebuild an immense network.

Moriarty.

A name that sent thrills of terror through most of London. A name that sent street rats bolting for secret safe houses. And now, it was everywhere. Echos of the word haunted every bar, every newspaper tabloid, every blogger's ramblings, though they grew progressively fainter as the weeks and the months passed by.

Why come back with such pomp and circumstance if you weren't going to act?

Why announce it at all?

Why wreck the element of surprise?

Why not call?

Why not text?

_Why?_

Moriarty.

The man terrified me.

Not because the consulting criminal was doubtlessly constructing my unpleasant demise. That was expected. Not because of how the man would use my own friends against me, like pawns on a chessboard. That was expected, too. That was the price of having friends.

Moriarty terrified me because I know exactly how close I myself am to belonging to that other extreme. When I stare at my map-web-plan-gameboard-thought-bubble-thinktank, I do not say to myself, "What would Moriarty do?". I say, "What would _I_ do?".

I am him. I know it. I know he knows it. I know he knows I know it.

But I do not want to be him.

I do not care about hurting people. I did once, but gave it up after realizing how pointless they all were.

I do not _like_ to hurt people, though. Or at least, that is what I try to convince myself of. Moriarty likes it, enjoys seeing people in danger, in pain. I don't. Although, I cannot deny that I relish the look of shocked loathing on Anderson's face when I remind him that I know he's having relations with Donovan. I cannot deny that my job isn't nearly so intense, so dramatic, so _fun_ when there's no lives on the line. And it's that tiny degree of pleasure that throws Doubt on everything else.

I do not like Doubt. I have made it a point to not to feel it. But Moriarty makes it impossible to ignore, the niggling, nagging, naughty Doubt that says "You would enjoy being the bad guy".

I don't care. That's another emotion I make it a point to ignore - caring.

John cares.

John chastises Donovan for calling me "freak" even though he knows it doesn't bother me. John chastises me for not caring enough about lives that are in danger. John wants me to be a hero. And I want to make John happy.

He is my friend.

I am not a hero.

But sometimes, being with him, I almost think about wanting to be one.

_There is an east wind coming._

I know Moriarty is planning something.

_There is an east wind coming._

I do not know his movements yet.

_There is an east wind coming._

But I will find out. And this time, I will put an end to our little game once and for all.


	2. Countdown

I suppose I didn't make my obligatory disclaimer in the last chapter, so no, I'm not Moffat publishing the script to season four on the internet. I also am not in any way associated with BBC, Arthur Conan Doyle, or other persons with a legal right to Sherlock Holmes. I can't even claim being British.

Moreover, I should probably clarify, in case it was unclear, that yes, this story does take place in the hole in my chest that is currently season four (yeah... 2016... whoo...). That's why we have season three spoiler-ish stuff - because it happens afterwards.

Finally, I'd like to thank everyone who's read this story so far, and the people I've gotten feedback from. If things seem OOC, please do let me know. I'm going to try and avoid writing from Sherlock's POV where possible, because even Doyle himself didn't do that. I think I will have to inevitably, so don't hate me. Without further ado...

* * *

Countdown

**MARY WATSON**  
**Monday**

Mary woke with a smile on her face, precisely 30 seconds before her alarm buzzed. Leaning over in bed, she woke her bleary-eyed husband with a peck on the cheek and gentle shove. She rolled off the mattress, dug through the pile of clothing on the floor for a clean pair of trousers, and headed for the bathroom.

"Save me some hot water," John mumbled, pulling a pillow across his face.

"Hurry up, and maybe you'll make it in time," his wife teased.

She was in a remarkably good mood, particularly for a Monday morning. It probably had something to do with the fact that Sheryl had slept through the night for the first time all month, and was helped along by the fact that, as she surveyed herself in the mirror, she noted that some of her pregnancy weight gain was at last melting off. John had been right - signing up for karate lessons had been a good idea. Technically, she was already a black belt, but John didn't know that, and the exercise was getting her back into shape.

At 7:05, there was nothing at all out of the ordinary in the "master" bath of the Watson household. There was a lot of white; the standard, utilitarian appliances mingled with white tile (the grout was yellowing slightly, but that too was by no means unusual), and the white walls, though in need of a fresh coat of paint, were precisely the same as they always were. The single sink sat centered in a cheap counter-top. It was altogether the picture of domestic mediocrity.

Mary's pyjama pants hit the floor. These were quickly followed by an overlarge tee-shirt and a zebra-print bra. A moment later, the shower was turned to its highest setting, and within seconds, the small room was beginning to fill with steam. Mrs. Watson murmured a few bars of a song - something by Adele, she was reasonably sure.

When the water turned off at 7:20, and a dripping hand reached for a fluffy towel, the woman peeking her head around the opaque shower curtain observed the bathroom in its entirety for the second time that morning. Everything was precisely as she had left it, except for a single detail. Though she had not heard the door open, and the tiny, frosted window was locked from the inside, there was now pasted to the mirror a pink Post-It note.

Curious, she padded to the sink, stepping lightly on the cold floor. The note could have come from her desk - she was quite sure she had sticky notes that color. On it was written, in a clear hand, a number five. Nothing more. Mary frowned.

"John...?" she called.

She did not receive a reply. Toweling off in a hurry, and momentarily stepping back into her nightclothes, Mary slipped out of the bath and peered around their sleeping quarters. John was gone, but on the bed was another pink note.

_SH texted me; gone out. Will shower tonight. I'll get the milk. - JW_

Well, that explained her husband's absence at least. Still regarding the note with the five quizzically, Mary set the piece of paper down on the bedside table and dressed herself. It wouldn't be long until a darling baby girl was looking for her breakfast, and in the meantime, the doctor's wife had a new high kick to practice.

**JOHN WATSON**

John buried his face under his pillow, feeling his phone buzz and in no mood to answer it. The offending cellular device buzzed again, however, and grumpily, John retrieved it.

_7:05 a.m._  
_Break-in at Astley Clarke. Come if convenient. - SH_

_7:06 a.m._  
_If inconvenient, come anyway. - SH_

The doctor rolled his eyes and dragged himself regretfully out of bed. Why couldn't London's criminal masses be more considerate of his sleep schedule? For that matter, why couldn't Sherlock?

John didn't even bother answering that last. Sherlock, he suspected, had already been up all night and had likely forgotten (or simply deleted) the fact that most humans require sleep for proper bodily function. Climbing into slacks and a jumper, John scrawled a note to Mary, dropped it on the pillow, and made his exit. The time on the alarm clock at this moment read "7:12".

He grabbed a sack lunch from the refrigerator, peeked in on Sheryl, who was cooing quietly in her sleep, and texted the consulting detective back as he stepped outside and hailed a cab.

_7:14 a.m._  
_Is it going to be dangerous? ;) - JW_

As a general rule, John did not care for the use of emoticons in text messages, as he found them rather banal means of communicating expression. He thought that Sherlock probably felt the same way, but he sent the winking face regardless, because if there was one place Mr. Holmes was deficient, it was in his comprehension of people's feelings, and without the additional clue, John wasn't sure Sherlock would recognize that the text was a joke.

_7:14 a.m._  
_I seriously doubt it. Nothing was actually stolen. And what on earth did you send me a semi-colon and an end-parenthesis for? - SH_

For the second time that morning, John Watson rolled his eyes. Apparently it was going to be one of _those_ Mondays.

The cab dropped the doctor just outside of the boutique. For a change, the site had not been barricaded off by Scotland Yard, so he did not have to answer any awkward questions about why he was strolling up to a crime scene, cool as you please. This, John surmised, was presumably linked to the fact that, according to Sherlock, nothing had been taken. But if there was no crime, he wondered, why were they there?

Sherlock met him at the small blue door.

"At last, a possible connection!" he exclaimed gleefully. "Do you see it?"

"Uh..." John thought back to last week's case. "The murder victim, Rockwell. He was a jewelry forger, wasn't he?"

"Precisely," the detective nodded sharply, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. "And now a break-in at one of London's many fine jewelry outlets."

"But you said nothing was taken," John said, following Sherlock as the man turned and strode down the aisle between displays.

"And today you were too tired when I texted you to brush your hair before leaving your flat," he replied without bothering to turn around. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought we were listing things that were painfully obvious."

John flattened his hair self-consciously, hastening his step to keep up. At the end of the aisle, Sherlock tapped smartly on the door to the back room and a young, well-dressed woman, presumably an employee, opened it.

"Is this your friend?" she asked, eying the doctor coyly. "You didn't tell me he was cute."

"Very astute - I did not tell you that. I also did not tell you that he is married and finds the cut of your skirt unappealing even if it does complement the length of your legs. Show us the security footage. John hasn't seen it yet, and I could do with watching it again."

The significantly more flustered woman opened the door wider, introducing herself as Tiffany, and led the men into a room already containing Lestrade and Donovan, who, fortunately, refrained from making any snide comments about Sherlock's presence in the company of the store attendant.

"Morning, John," Lestrade greeted him amiably. "This is a weird one, make no mistake. Here, check this out."

The DI pulled a laptop to him and rewound the security footage. The time stamp placed it just after midnight the previous evening. It showed a single figure, masked, first carefully picking the lock on the side entrance and then punching in the code to turn off the alarms on the exterior security system.

"The controls are on the outside for safety purposes," Tiffany explained.

"Mmm, very safe," Sherlock muttered, "putting the 'off' switch on the outside where anyone could get at it. A real stroke of brilliance."

"Never mind that," John said quickly. "Why break in at all? What were they after?"

"'She'," Sherlock corrected. "Look at the height, the figure, the way she steps. Possibly someone very, very clever trying to fool us, but balance of probability says your cat burglar is a woman."

"So she breaks in," Lestrade narrated, pointing out the scene's particulars for the doctor's benefit, "passes by a dozen cases of jewelry worth hundreds of pounds a piece, passes the cash register as well, reaches the end of the aisle, just outside the door here, picks something up, and then leaves."

"You said that nothing was taken," Sherlock said, frowning in Tiffany's direction.

"Because it wasn't." The girl was obviously frustrated. "There's nothing on that table but a stack of business cards and a pot of flowers, and I was working the final shift last night - I'd have noticed if there was something unusual set over there."

"Was anyone else working with you?"

"Oh, just Marilyn," Tiffany laughed. "She's new. Scottish. Loves American music, and gossips something awful, let me tell you."

"A trait which clearly is in no way shared by any of her co-workers," Sherlock said under his breath. "When did she start working here?"

"About a month ago, now. She does clean-up, inventory, all that sort of thing. I spend most of my time out front with people. Her brother drops by sometimes - I don't like him. He smokes. Drinks, too, if I know him at all. But she adores him, of course."

"What about customers?" the detective mused. "Who came in here yesterday?"

"Oh, er..." The girl thought hard for a minute. "It was a pretty slow day... Let's see... We had a gentleman in around noon to pick up some new cufflinks - his sister's getting married next week, darling gentleman. And, uh, there was a woman in at 4:00 who browsed but didn't end up making a purchase, and... another woman, just before we closed. She got a pair of earrings; diamond set in 24 karats. A classic look, simply classic -"

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock interrupted. "Now, did any of the three of them go near the table?"

"The table?"

Sherlock's sigh conveyed in a single breath his utter disdain for those unable to follow his train of thought. "Yes, the table. The one, which, according to you, only holds flowers and business cards."

"Oh. Not really. Ah... Actually, come to think of it, the earrings were on display near to the table. I suppose it's possible that, when I unlocked the case, she could have gone over to it. Not that I'd like to speak ill of a paying customer," she added hastily.

"A fact she was probably counting on," murmured the detective.

"So you know what happened?" Donovan asked skeptically.

"Well, yes, of course we do."

"Sherlock..." The detective turned to John, who was regarding him with his arms crossed.

"Oh. Am I doing 'the look' again?"

"Yeah, uh-huh. How about taking us through it?" the doctor prompted.

"Right. A woman enters the shop and purchases a pair of earrings conveniently close to the back table. While Tiffany isn't looking, the woman turns, takes a business card, scrawls a message on the back, and replaces it on the pile. She would want to be sure that no-one else would take it by accident, so she came in just before closing. That night, another woman breaks in with help from your new girl, who could have gotten access to the security code from your boss' drawer while working here in the back. She takes the message and leaves. What we need now is to figure out what the note said..."

Spinning around, Sherlock went back into the main room, closely followed by the remainder of the team and located the table. It was a small mahogany piece, burdened by a hideous antique flower vase and a small stack of crisp, professional-looking cards.

"Pencil," Sherlock said shortly.

When he was handed one, he began to dust it over the top card, allowing the graphite to rub off ever so faintly.

"She would have been in a rush," the detective explained. "She'd have kept the card on the pile to expedite the process, and would have written quickly. Quickly usually means heavier-than-average pressure. If we're lucky, we should see - ah ha!"

The grey graphite had covered most of the card, but hadn't been ground into the faint grooves left by a woman's heavy writing on the sheet above. Thus, the message was distinctly visible in thin, white lines.

_GREEN._

"Green..." John repeated. "What's it -?"

"There's going to be a break-in," said Sherlock decisively.

"What?"

"When?"

A chorus of questions ran out. The doctor, either better acquainted with Sherlock's nebulous statements or more intimately familiar with the backwards plots of criminals, asked,

"Where?"

When Sherlock turned to him with a faint smile, John knew he'd picked the right question.

"Very good, John. The crime is not going to occur here. That much is plain. Had burglary of this establishment been the intent, why not do it last night instead of waiting until the police were surely going to have been alerted? No, this was the staging ground, nothing more. Tonight, there is a popular American band staying at the Camelot House just behind the Astley Clarke premises. They are particularly big amongst their Scottish followers. I'd say that this was the brother's idea - probably out looking for some easy cash, and doubtless he knows some pretty bad people, too, who wouldn't mind making a score. He's got himself a group, and the information on the band's schedule is all neatly provided by Miss Marilyn. She loves her brother - he could talk her into getting the security code, no problem. So there it is - set up in the neighboring jewelry store, send the signal card when everything is in place, and tonight, presumably at the same time, while the band is out performing, our little gang breaks into their hotel room and holds them up for cash when the members return."

By this point in time, everyone was staring at Sherlock like a school of goldfish.

"How does he work these things out?" Lestrade asked weakly.

"He's a freak, I told you," Donovan muttered quietly.

"Be ready at the Camelot House tonight, detective inspector, and you'll catch them in the act."

Ten minutes later, having sorted out the details of the evening's escapade, John and Sherlock were again waiting for a cab on the street corner.

"Not exactly the connection I was looking for, John," Sherlock said with a small grimace. "There has to be a pattern - there just has to be!"

"Maybe Moriarty isn't behind it," the doctor shrugged. "It doesn't all have to boil down to one of his little games."

"But I have to assume that it does," the detective argued. "Otherwise, I won't be able to stop him hurting someone again."

Sherlock did not actually say "hurting you again", but the words hung unspoken in the air between them anyway.

A cab pulled over, mercifully free of lunatic serial killers. John ate his lunch in the back seat, Sherlock stared out the window, and it was altogether a sombre party who stopped on Elvanston Street.

"This one wasn't so far away, was it?" John remarked. "I swear, Mary's gone to Astley Clarke before."

The frown on Sherlock's face deepened.

"Has she, at that?" he whispered to himself.

"What was that?" John asked, leaning back into the cab.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing."

The car stopped outside of John's flat; the blonde man climbed out the side before turning back and looking at Sherlock.

"Come to dinner with us?" the doctor invited.

"Thank you, no," Sherlock replied, a little cooler than necessary. "I'll not force myself on the happy couple. Enjoy your evening. Say 'hi' to Mary for me. Ta."

Without further ado, he pulled the side door closed and gave the cabbie his address, leaving John, puzzled, on the sidewalk.

Mary came out to meet him, holding a tiny blonde girl in her arms.

"Did you get the milk, love?"

John rubbed his temples.

"Damn. No, I forgot. Sorry."

"Don't worry, dear, I'll get it. Go drink a cup of tea. Oh, and John?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you leave a note in the bathroom this morning?"

"In the bathroom? No. I left it on the bed. Why?"

"No reason, dear. Go get your tea."

**MARY WATSON**  
**Tuesday**

It was Tuesday morning, 7:00, and Mrs. Watson was feeling less enthused about getting up. Sheryl had not been keen to continue sleeping for a straight eight-hour run, and had woken five different times after midnight. Still, Mary was nothing if not resilient, and after a moment of self-pity, the woman nudged her husband and headed for the shower.

"Joining me this morning?" she called over her shoulder. Only muffled groans issued from the bed in reply.

_I'll take that as a 'no'_, she smiled to herself.

Shower, scrub, shampoo, lather, rinse, repeat. Cucumber body wash was her favorite, but John preferred apple, so she reached for that instead. She could hear her husband cursing to himself as he attempted to find his phone, his keys, and his toothbrush, two of which were in the bathroom; oddly, the toothbrush was not one of those two.

She could hear his "Have a good day, love!" as he left for work, and his silly, nonsensical gurgling to the baby.

When the hot water ran out as it always did 15 minutes into her shower, Mary Watson stepped out of the bath and found herself confronted with another pink sticky note, again stuck to the center of the mirror.

Tuesday's message was a large number four; Mary could only assume her husband had stuck it there when he'd entered to get his keys.

"Men," she said irritably, ripping it off the mirror. Once she was dressed, she retrieved a displeased Sheryl from her bassinet and dropped the Post-It on the bedside table.

_Hold on..._ she frowned. Hadn't she set yesterday's note there as well? Where was it? Perhaps John had moved it the previous evening.

Sheryl started crying for real then, looking for her third breakfast that morning.

_Thank God for maternity leave_, Mary thought._ It's like feeding a Hobbit - small, and always hungry._

**JOHN WATSON**

Dr. Watson was looking forward to a quiet day at the clinic. Running around London with Sherlock Holmes prevented him going stir crazy, but it did not do much to pay the rent. Thankfully, the detective had not yet texted him, which indicated that he might actually get some work done for a change.

The office was quieter without Mary there. Sarah wouldn't give him the time of day, which he was fine with, and the other doctors were always polite, but not much in the way of conversation. It was just as well, really. For once, the blonde doctor was not bothered by the steady stream of flu shots alternating with folks possessing symptoms of a deeply unfortunate, somewhat compromising nature.

He'd prescribed dermatological hand cream, a trip to the ER, three booster shots, and a new sleep medication by the time he was through, and feeling very pleased with himself. Slipping into a light jacket, he was already reaching into his pocket to phone Mary when his cell buzzed of its own accord - a text message.

_6:04 p.m._  
_We've got another one. The London Library. Urgent - SH_

John sighed softly. At least the consulting detective had managed to wait until after hours to get a case. His fingers danced over the electronic keyboard as he punched out his reply.

_6:04 p.m. _  
_I'm on my way. - JW_

_6:05 p.m._  
_Mary, I won't be home for dinner. Don't wait up. - JW_

The London Library, located in St. James's Square, was the world's largest independent lending library, and one of the primary literary institutions in the UK. Founded in 1841, the building was open to all, upon the payment of an annual subscription, and the building's collections included everything from fine art to architecture to philosophy, religion, and travel. Today, it was cordoned off from the rest of the square by police tape and cars. Lestrade came to meet John's cab, looking worried.

"It's a murder," he said the minute John exited the cab. "Sherlock's examining the body on the third floor. Shot, by the look of things, and Sherlock seems to think it's Moriarty's MO. He panicked the moment he saw the room. Maybe you can talk some sense into him."

"That would be a first," John said quietly, to which Lestrade just laughed.

The detective inspector lead John through the ground floor to the lift, which took them up the TS Eliot house to the floor marked "M", housing books about art. The tall bookshelves stood in narrow rows and seemed to frame an old window spilling the light of the golden sunset across the metal grill floor. The curtains fluttered in the soft spring breeze.

The body was in front of the window: a young, blonde woman laying flat on her back, a dark bloodstain in the center of her chest. Sherlock Holmes was bent over her, examining her watch, but looked up when John walked in.

"Ah, finally," a pleased Sherlock said. "John, come here."

The doctor stepped gingerly on the floor but found that the metal did not so much as shift beneath his weight. Once beside the detective, he took more careful stock of the corpse.

"Female," he said, a trifle obviously. "Shot through the heart, by the look of it. A... very small caliber bullet..."

".338 millimeter -" the detective began.

"- Lapua Magnum," John finished with a small smile. "Recently popularized by the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq."

"Of course," Sherlock said quietly. Somehow, John did not get the feeling that the detective was referring to the bullet.

John completed his examination. "No other signs of violence, though the way our luck seems to run, an autopsy looking for poison might not be out of place. Is she staff? She's got a name tag... Emilia Roberts?"

"Mmm, she's staff," Sherlock nodded. "Shortsighted. Her glasses are in her hand. She was bent over and had taken them off to examine something below the window. When she stood up, she was shot. Our sniper was situated on the roof of one of the neighboring buildings and fired through the open window. There's no need to look for poison - Moriarty wouldn't bother with being so redundant."

"What makes you sure that this is Moriarty's hit?" John asked, frowning.

"Because I've seen this sniper's signature before. Ms. Roberts was shot by none other than Sebastian Moran, a notorious mercenary on Moriarty's employ. Everything about this resembles his work - the clean shot through the cracked window, a direct hit to the chest over a distance of at least 100 yards, the bullet size - nothing messy, quiet, and very professional. He even took into account the grilled flooring and shot her from a place where she'd fall on her back - less chance of blood dripping down to other floors and getting noticed. Brilliant."

"But what's the motive?"

Sherlock exhaled slightly. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"John," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "as you so frequently attempt to remind me, I _am_ human. I'm not omnipotent. I make deductions based on factual observations. There is very little here to go on. She had a good relationship with her parents, no significant other to speak of, or children, but according to her co-workers she was happy and pleasant to be around. No apparent drunkenness, drug abuse, gambling, or other like vices. She was a touch OCD, but that's no reason to shoot a person - usually. Insofar as I can tell, there is absolutely nothing significant about the girl; she was a totally ordinary, successful librarian."

John was admittedly annoyed by the dismissiveness with which Sherlock treated the corpse, but he also recognized that if in fact Moriarty was behind this, there was no time to argue with the arrogant detective about the merits of compassion. Therefore, he bit his tongue and looked around the room.

"You said she was looking at something. What was she looking at?"

"I've already thought of that," the detective shook his head. "According to the body's current position, she was standing here -," Sherlock walked to a place directly in front of the window and crouched down, "- and was looking at this book display. There are no new pieces to be accounted for, nor any particularly old ones of significant value. Furthermore, I've already done a quick internet search - none of the pieces mentioned in any of these books are on display here in London, nor are they due for an exhibition any time soon."

John grimaced. There was one lead down. "Well... what was she doing here? I mean," he clarified, "obviously she works here, but why was she looking at these particular volumes?"

"That is the question, isn't it? There is no reason for her to not be here - the art room was part of her jurisdiction - but it does seem curious. How did Moran know where she was going to be? How soon did he know about the window's being open? And why was she here, looking around, when there were two carts full of books that required her attention?"

"Maybe she was feeling lazy," John suggested.

"Unlikely," Sherlock countered. "Her boss put her down as a hard worker, and don't forget the OCD - she would never leave a job unfinished."

"Yes, you mentioned the compulsiveness, but I don't see it."

"Oh, you see it, John, but you don't observe. Look at her hands - fingernails chewed, so a worrier, then, of nervous habits. The skin on her finger tips is rubbed red - a compulsive cleaner, but not a hypochondriac. One only has to look at the state of her shoes to see that. I had a look at her desk. The pens were arranged according to color, and the papers split up by subject in separate folders. Conclusion: she exhibited obsessive behavior about the appearance of her environment."

"Well..." John hazarded, "maybe she was cleaning. She bent over, and -"

"No, John," Sherlock interrupted. "Where are the cleaning supplies, then? No wipes, no duster -"

"Have you ever _been_ in a library?" John cut back in. "Half the work is in keeping the books themselves tidy. Maybe one was backwards on the shelf, or sitting on it out of place."

Sherlock stared at him; John would have sworn that there was something positively electric in that expression.

"It's possible," he said excitedly. "There are other potential explanations, but it's possible! We can take that as a working hypothesis. So someone enters the building, disturbs the books near the window, Moran gets into position... Ms. Roberts passes, notes the books out of place, which _would_ be relatively unusual in a library of this demographic, and is compelled to stop and fix them. She's dead the moment she stands. It seems to fit the facts."

"Except for one thing." Lestrade had been listening to this exchange with keen interest, but took that moment to step forward. "We know how she could have died, which is great, and we have the killer. But unless I've missed something, we still do not have a plausible motive."

"As usual, Lestrade, you have missed several 'somethings', but for once I do not believe any of them pertain to motive," Sherlock said. "There is no logical reason to shoot this particular librarian."

"So look for an illogical one, then," John put out. "Maybe... Moran shot the wrong person. Was there anyone else in the room?"

"Not supposedly," Lestrade sighed. "She was shot, according to forensics, around 5:00. People downstairs heard the echoes of the shot, but the body wasn't discovered by maintenance for another half hour."

"In any case, it's highly unlikely that Moran made a mistake," Sherlock added. "The gun required to make such a perfect shot over so long a distance would have had a very powerful scope on it; Moran knew exactly who he was shooting."

"Wouldn't Moriarty know you would recognize his assassin's work?" the doctor asked. "Maybe he just wants your attention."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he went to stand at the window, gazing across the London skyline.

"Now you're starting to sound like me," he said. "Lestrade, I'll give you the information I have on Moran, but I wouldn't expect to catch him, if I were you. He is good at what he does. I'm going to continue to investigate, and will let you know as soon as I find anything useful. John... thank you for coming. Your assistance is, as always, invaluable. It seems we've come across a stumbling block, however, so you may as well go home."

John stood and laid a hand tentatively on the detective's shoulder. Sherlock glanced up and looked at him, his surprise at being touched evident.

"Can I help?" the shorter man asked. "Do you need me to go somewhere? Look something up?"

"221B is out of milk," Sherlock said, a small smile turning his lips.

"I'm being serious, Sherlock," John reprimanded him. "If there's anything I can do, let me know."

"I will," the detective replied, turning back to stare out the window. John glanced over his shoulder at Lestrade, who was regarding the pair curiously. The doctor gave a small jerk of his head toward the door. Taking the hint, the DI slipped out to wait in the hallway.

"Sherlock," John said more forcefully. "Just promise me one thing. Promise me that whatever you find out you'll tell me, even if you can't trouble yourself to let Scotland Yard know. No going off after Moriarty on your own."

This time, Sherlock turned all the way around and looked at John seriously.

"You are worried."

"Mmm. Good deduction, that."

"Why?"

"Why am I _worried_?" John asked incredulously. "Oh, um, I don't know - maybe because the last time this happened, you jumped off the roof of a hospital and let me think you were dead for two years. I don't particularly care to spend another string of weeks contemplating the logistics of putting a bullet through my brain."

Sherlock blinked. He blinked again as his superhuman intelligence attempted to process that statement. An expression came over his face that said very clearly "processing failed"; most people would have termed it confusion, but then, Sherlock Holmes was not most people.

Eventually, he said only, "Yes, John. I promise. I will text you if I find anything."

"Thank you," John said. "Now, perhaps you can pay for my cab home for a change."

**MARY WATSON**  
**Wednesday**

Mrs. Watson was ready. She'd stepped into the shower about five minutes ago and had developed a plan for catching her mysterious sticky-note-depositor in the act. Her hair could forgo its daily drubbing for once - the Post-Its were beginning to get under her skin. Something was just... _off_ about them.

Stationing herself at the back of the tub, she positioned herself in a place where she could clearly see around the shower curtain while still remaining more or less obscured herself. Now all she had to do was wait... Or not.

With a disbelieving snort, Mary turned off the shower and stepped carefully onto the blue bathmat. A small pink piece of paper was already adhered to the glass, inscribed with a number three. The woman frowned. She had predicted this, but that did nothing to ease her concern as she stared down at the number.

Checking her watch, Mary noted that she was not mistaken; she had only stepped into the bathroom five minutes ago, and the note had most assuredly not been there before. Outside the bathroom door, she could hear John dragging himself out of bed. One hand on her hip, the other holding the paper, she walked back into their sleeping quarters.

When John looked up and found his wife staring at him, totally undressed and still dripping, his expression went from one of sleepy annoyance to one significantly more alert.

"Ah... Problem with the bath, love?" he asked.

"What," she asked, holding out the paper for him to see, "is this?"

"Uh..." John stepped closer, unsuccessfully trying to repress the blush spreading over his cheeks. "It looks like a number three. Why?"

Mary could practically hear him trying to work out why he was in trouble for a three and sighed internally. So he hadn't had anything to do with it, then. Still, just to make sure, she asked, "What about the note from yesterday, and the day before?"

John's expression turned even more confused. "What notes?"

"Other numbers," Mary replied vaguely. "I've been finding them on the bathroom mirror."

"That's... weird," John said. "Look, uh... I have to get to work, so do you mind if we skip over the foreplay this morning? I swear, I'll make it up to you later. All the espionage you want."

Mary let a smile she didn't feel cross her face. "'Course, love," she said gently. "Come here."

She pulled him to her and kissed him deeply as her husband ran his hand down the small of her back. Ten minutes later, John was off for work, and Mary was thinking breathlessly that she might need to finish that shower after all, hot water be buggered. In fact, a cold shower was almost certainly what the good doctor ordered.

In the excitement, the third note had fallen to the carpet. Mary picked it up and took it to the side table. This time, she was certain she was not going slowly crazy. Both the previous notes were gone. She deliberately set the pink paper down. Someone was repeatedly breaking into their flat and leaving cryptic notes.

Five... Four... Three... A countdown.

Mrs. Watson did not know what it was a countdown to, but she had the sneaking suspicion it was not going to be good.

In the bassinet, Sheryl started to cry. Mary picked her up carefully, cradling the darling baby to her. John was right, even if he didn't know it. Espionage could wait. There was a baby to look after.

And it seemed that espionage was content to wait.

They would wait.

They would wait for two more days.

After that, all bets were off.

**JOHN WATSON**

Dr. Watson had been sitting in his office for an hour when the text came.

_8:30 a.m._  
_Hostage crisis. Riverwood Secondary. - SH_

John very nearly fell out of his chair. Riverwood was a private school. There were children in danger.

_8:30 a.m._  
_Txt me details ASAP. - JW_

John was out of the office before the message finished sending.

_Thank God my hours are flexible_, he thought fleetingly as he punched out. On the sidewalk, John elbowed a man out of the way, shouting "police" and diving into the cab that the first man had been seconds from boarding. The doctor gave the address in the same breath and wrenched his mobile from his pocket as it buzzed with a reply.

_8:33 a.m._  
_Lone gunman holding kids for ransom. Hurry. - SH_

The fact that Sherlock had bothered to reply at all was enough to set John's pulse into overdrive, but the last sentence was an order which John immediately relayed to the cabbie. Mentally, John thanked the sixth sense that drove him to keep his handgun in his coat pocket at all times. Something about living with Sherlock Holmes for any period of time did that to a person.

The cabbie had to pull over at the entrance of the street; a line of police barricades had cordoned it off from the rest of traffic. John practically threw his fare at the driver and raced to where Lestrade was standing with Donovan, Anderson, and the others.

"John." Lestrade's face was paler than usual, and his often-cheerful countenance was creased in worry. "He texted you, then?"

"Yes. Where is he?" There was no question about to whom they were referring.

"The roof of that building." Lestrade pointed to an old brick structure abutting the small campus. "God knows how he got up there. But he seems to think he can break into the school without being noticed by the gunman. Meanwhile, we've got a negotiator here trying to talk to..."

Lestrade didn't bother finishing his sentence. No sooner had he told John where Sherlock was than the young doctor was off and running.

The building the detective inspector had indicated was a dilapidated old warehouse that had the look of an urban reclamation project abandoned half-way through. Bulldozers and forklifts stood rusting behind chain-link fence, while a crane sat unmoving, halfway through the task of lifting an I-beam. The whole area was littered with warnings about trespassing and the consequences thereof. Studiously ignoring these, John hopped the fence and skirted the machinery. A fire escape ran up the side of the warehouse; mercifully, John was tall enough to grab on to the retracting ladder if he stood on a crate.

By the time he reached the roof, the doctor was panting, his legs burning with exhaustion, but seeing Sherlock motioning him over caused some of the discomfort to dissipate.

"You took your time," the detective said mildly.

"Easy for you to say," John countered. "I swear I talked the cabbie into breaking a dozen traffic safety laws on the way here."

Sherlock snorted. "Ever seen_ me_ drive?"

"Never mind that. How are we getting in there?"

The detective squinted at the crane. "I've done all the necessary calculations. Accounting for the length of the chain and our relative velocity, I think we can run and jump onto the chain fast enough to swing most of the way to the roof of the school. At that point, we'll have to jump. We'll only have one chance at it, though - if we miss the first jump, the motion of the chain will decrease exponentially."

"Wait. What?" an astonished John asked.

"Just follow me," Sherlock said impatiently. "Jump when I jump. And a bit of friendly advice - don't miss."

Sherlock counted thirty paces back from the edge of the warehouse roof, standing such that he was in line with both the crane and the school building. Despite an infinite number of misgivings, John was standing next to him, silently questioning their sanity.

Without warning, Sherlock started running. John dashed after him. At their top speed, the edge of the roof was approaching far too fast.

"Don't... pause," Sherlock gasped through gritted teeth. "Maintain... kinetic... energy. _Jump!"_

One after the other, the men leaped from the edge. Sherlock caught the chain easily, having worked the mechanics out in his head, and slid down it to land on the I-beam even as it began to swing forward. John's catch was less graceful. He missed the chain entirely, catching Sherlock around the waist and clinging on for dear life.

As predicted, their combined momentum was enough to swing them out to the edge of the school roof. At the moment when the chain paused in midair, having reached its height and not yet succumbing to the downward pull of gravity, two things happened in unison: Sherlock spun himself backwards so that John fell off him onto the gravel roof, and the detective jumped off the metal bar.

Unable to see exactly where he was aiming, Sherlock missed the roof, scrabbling desperately instead at the edge. His fingers slipped, and he lost his grip. He'd resigned himself to falling off a building for real when John reached over and grabbed him by the wrist.

"Can't have you doing that, now can we?" the doctor grinned cheekily, ignoring the scrape across his temple and the bruises Sherlock could see already forming on his forearms. He hauled Sherlock onto the top of the school, and they lay there a moment, breathing heavily.

"That," Sherlock said dryly, "was not one of my best ideas."

"You think?"

The sound of a shot being fired sent a shock of adrenaline through John's system.

"Sherlock?" he hissed. "The kids!"

The detective forced himself to his feet, brushing the dust from his trenchcoat.

"There should be an access door up here somewhere. Help me find it."

The door, it turned out, was not particularly hard to find, nor was the lock difficult to pick, at least in Sherlock's skilled hands. They raced down the stairs, Sherlock flipping Lestrade's badge at a pair of terrified schoolmistresses.

"They're on the first floor, poor dears!" the first woman exclaimed.

"Did you hear the gunshot?" the other asked, eyes brimming with tears. "Oh God, I hope they're okay!"

Sherlock was already dragging John to the staircase.

"No time to bother with an elevator," he explained. "Could get stuck. The shooter could cut the power. Better to take the stairs."

John nodded and put on another burst of speed. Two flights of stairs flew past, and then they were on the ground floor. Sherlock put a finger to his lips, as if John had to be told that silence was key.

"We have to find him," Sherlock breathed, bending to John's ear. "If the opportunity presents itself, shoot to kill." John did not ask how Sherlock knew he had his gun with him; the doctor had had his hand on it for the last five minutes.

All at once, they heard a voice shout from a classroom down the hall. As one, the pair began to creep forward. There was a small scream, and John felt his stomach clench, but the gun was not fired again.

The corridor ended in a T-junction. With the school on lockdown, all the doors were shut and the lights turned off. Down the right passage, however, though all the doors remained closed, a single room had lights on. The men nodded to each other.

As they approached the door, they could hear heated voices as the gunman argued with the Yard's negotiator over the phone.

"Two million pounds and not a bill less, you hear me?" the man growled. "They're rich enough if they can afford this place."

There was a brief pause in which John and the detective reached the door. It was solid oak, but a glass panel set into the wall showed a sliver of the classroom - Algebra, to all appearances. The gunman was only just visible, the side of his bald head and stocky body barely able to seen from his position in the center of the room. The desks had been pushed as a barricade against the door, and the students were huddled in a terrified group against the far wall.

Sherlock wrenched John away from the glass before any of the young people could see them and give away their position.

"I can't shoot him from here," John hissed.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied. "You can't shoot him from there, either, at the moment, and seeing you will only cause the children to panic. We have to wait for him to move."

The gunman chose that moment to start arguing violently again.

"Good," Sherlock whispered.

"Good? How is that _good_?" John asked, as the one-sided conversation revealed that the children's families couldn't afford the £ two million ransom.

"Listen," Sherlock commanded, and reluctantly, John complied.

At first, he noticed nothing other than the sound of angry shouting, but soon he heard something else - pacing. Suddenly understanding what the detective was waiting for, John edged sidewise slowly until he could just peer through the window. The gunman was out of sight, but as he waited, the man's voice grew louder until he stormed angrily across John's line of vision.

The doctor drew his cocked Browning's and slid fully in front of the glass just as the man walked past again. Before he had the chance to see him, John took aim and fired.

There was a long silence. It occurred to John that he was clenching his eyes shut, and he slowly prized them open. There was a clean hole through the glass and the gunman's body stretched out on the floor. The two dozen students were staring at him, wide-eyed, unsure whether the doctor was there to rescue them or to add to their ordeal.

Shaking slightly, John dropped his arm and slid his gun back into his pocket. Pressing his face near the bullet hole, he said through the window, "It's alright. I'm with the police. You're safe."

Sherlock was already texting Lestrade when John looked down. A handful of the more adventurous secondary schoolers were nervously pulling the desks from the door, as if unsure whether they should be doing so. When enough of them were moved that the door could be opened, John strode in and took charge of the situation. He shepherded the children into a line away from the body and did his best to offer reassurances while Lestrade's team filed in.

The teacher proved the recipient of the earlier shot. Sherlock examined both the bodies while John helped distribute shock blankets to the students. In spite of everything, the odd sensation of déjà vu tugged a small, slightly hysterical smile from his face.

When the children had cleared the room and Anderson had been dispatched to help make phone calls to parents, Sherlock sat curled up on top of one of the desks, frowning at John and the detective inspector.

"Well?" Lestrade asked. "It's the second shooting in two days. Is it Moriarty, or isn't it?"

"Yesterday, I was certain it was," the consulting detective said quietly. "On the surface, this appears to be an utterly unrelated case. But you are right - it is coincidental. And you know how I feel about coincidences - the universe is rarely so lazy."

**Thursday**

Mary sat on the bed, staring at a number two written on a pink Post-It note. Slowly, she typed a short text into her mobile, not yet pressing "send". It would be ready when she needed it.

John fought fatigue from his office chair at the clinic. Last night's investigation had been exhausting on a multitude of levels. It was so strange to see Sherlock out of his depth, and concern was eating him alive.

Sherlock stood in place, staring at his wall, forgetting to eat, to sleep, and sometimes to breath. He was missing something. A piece of the puzzle that would link everything together. But what?

**JOHN WATSON**  
**Friday**

Sherlock sent him the message before it was yet light.

_5:17 a.m._  
_Report of new activity Shadwell Manor. Meet me. - SH_

The blonde man had slept poorly, and the vibration of his phone woke him immediately. Shadwell Manor. Of course - from the last week's case. John scribbled Mary a note and was out the door the moment he was dressed.

It was not hard to get a cab at 5:30 in the morning, and traffic was blessedly light. The sun was just rising as the black taxi car pulled to a stop at the end of the long drive marked "Shadwell". A moment later, a second cab stopped and Sherlock Holmes climbed out.

"Right on time, Doctor," he said, steel-grey eyes alight with the thrill of the chase. "Lestrade got a call this morning from one of the neighbors that someone was seen sneaking around here in the dark last night. He asked us to look around and see if there's anything to it or not."

"Do you think there is?" John asked, stifling a yawn.

"Could be," the detective answered, looking around eagerly. "This could be the connection I've been waiting for."

It did not take much searching to discover footprints in the dew-wet grass. John might have passed them by, but Sherlock pointed out the characteristic breaks in the verdigris, and soon they were following the narrow track around the back of the house. It stopped at the edge of the property, near to the neighboring manor house.

"This is where Lestrade's call came from," Sherlock said. He pointed at the ground. "Look at the tracks - they're all muddled. Our man milled around here for a while before going off that way. He was probably talking to someone on the phone, but what I can't fathom is why he would come here to do it. It's like..." The detective's eyes widened and he took off following the second track, which ended up looping back around to the house.

Chasing after him, John called, "It's like _what_? Sherlock? What is it -"

Sherlock stopped mid-stride, raising his hand to stop John also.

"It's like he _wanted_ to get caught," Sherlock said quietly. He pointed to the footprints, which disappeared into the abandoned Shadwell manor. "Why else would he cross a deserted property to make a loud phone call outside an inhabited house and then sneak back into the empty one?"

"Wanted to get caught?" John repeated. "But -"

"John, please suppress your inner desire to become a parrot and be silent a moment."

John took the cue to shut up, but continued to stare.

Cautiously, Sherlock pushed the back door open and followed the path of the intruder inside. Sherlock traced the faint pattern of wetness across the floorboards to the front room. It was exactly as it had been last Thursday, except sans Rockwell's body. With the absence of the corpse, there was the addition of a new curiosity. A single pink note was stuck to the wall concealing the old fireplace.

Sherlock followed the footprints out the front door, concluding that the intruder had done nothing more than enter and put up the note before he left. Doubling back, he and John stared together at the paper. It said one thing, and one thing only: _Oopsie._

"I've missed something," Sherlock said hollowly. "I've made a mistake."

"Sherlock..."

"Quiet, John. I'm thinking.

"But Sherlock, Mary -"

"Shush."

"Mary had a paper -"

"Shut up!"

Throwing up his hands in frustration, John walked back to the center of the living room, thinking hard. Eventually, Sherlock faced him.

"Call Lestrade. It would appear we have a situation."

**MARY WATSON**

Upon waking, Mary Watson did not head for her customary shower. Instead, she opened her phone and pressed the "send" option on her unsent text.

_7:00 a.m._  
_I have a favor to ask. Can you watch Sheryl today? - MW_

The reply was not long in coming, at which Mary smiled grimly.

_7:01 a.m._  
_Is something going on? - MH_

_7:01 a.m._  
_Not sure. Still, I'd rather be safe than sorry. - MW_

_7:02 a.m._  
_I suppose I owe you one for Sherlock. - MH_

_7:02 a.m._  
_For calling the ambulance or for shooting him? - MW_

_7:03 a.m._  
_..._  
_I suppose I owe you two. A car will be there in five. - MH_

Mary stood and retrieved the sleeping baby from her cradle. She knew she could count on Mycroft. Whatever happened today, their baby would have the best protection the British government could provide.

The black car arrived exactly on time, and Anthea herself stepped out, Mycroft's own personal lackey.

"Anthea," Mary said demurely. "I was not expecting the honor."

"Neither was I," Anthea replied, taking the baby from her mother. "Is there a situation I should be aware of?"

"I'm assuming by 'I', you mean Mycroft."

"Of course."

"I have reasons to be... concerned. I would be able to concentrate better if I knew that Sheryl was being looked after by the best of the best."

Anthea nodded slightly. "Mycroft has accorded the child a personal armament of MI6 bodyguards." Ever the discrete one, Anthea managed to not look like she thought this was totally overkill, though both women knew she was thinking it.

"Thank you," Mary said genuinely. "And tell Mycroft for me as well, please."

Anthea nodded and slid back into the car, holding Sheryl. Mary watched it disappear before turning back to face the flat. Ample time had passed. If someone meant her ill, they had had a perfect opportunity to break in and prepare themselves. The woman drew a silenced pistol from under her cardigan. She too had had time to prepare.

There was something wrong about having to break into one's own flat, but that was what it felt like as Mrs. Watson carefully examined every room for signs of an intruder.

_Living room - clean._

_Kitchen - clean._

_Dining room - clean_

_Water closet - clean_

_Laundry room - clean_

_Bedroom - clean._

That left only the bathroom, and somehow, Mary was not surprised. She nudged the door open with her foot and found herself staring at an empty room. For good measure, she checked behind the shower curtain, but as she'd expected, no-one was there.

Steeling herself, Mrs. Watson turned and faced the sink. There was a small box on the counter, and a single pink note on top of it.

_One_, the note said.

Mary opened the box. There was a mess of wires inside, and an LCD screen displaying the numbers 5:00. As soon as the lid came off, the numbers began to count backwards.

_4:59_

_4:58_

_4:57_

Semtex. Naturally.

Mary let out a shaky breath and set the box back on the counter. She had five minutes. She could run. Just as she thought this, a small bulb lit up red and began blinking.

... . ._.. ._.. _

Morse code.

_Hello._

"Hello," Mary said coldly. "Who are you?"

_ _ ._. .. ._ ._. _ _._

_Moriarty_. Naturally.

"May I have a minute?"

_._ _ .._ ... ._ ..._ . .._. .. ..._ .

_You have five._

_.. _ _. _ ._. .._ _.

_Don't run._

_ ... ._ _ ._ _ .._ ._.. _.. _... . _... _ ._. .. _. _.

_That would be boring._

Mary stepped into the bedroom and retrieved a pack of matches. Perhaps that was an unusual item for a new mother to carry in her purse, but then, Mary Watson was an unusual new mother. Lighting one, she held it up close to the bedroom smoke detector. A minute later, the alarm went off. She could hear people upstairs shouting in consternation. Good. Perhaps some of them would make it out alive.

Returning to the bathroom, Mary retrieved her phone and typed in her last text message.

_7:29 a.m._  
_John - don't go and be sad. I'm mad for you. At dinner, see Mycroft. Our dear Sheryl, bless her, is sleeping and safe. Moriarty is gone. Did you see it? Sherlock will be looking for safe. - I love you. - Mary Watson_

Mary watched the clock count down. When there was thirty seconds left on the clock, she sent it. Just enough time to be sure John got the message, and not enough time for her to have to see his reply.

_... _._ . _... _._ .

_Bye bye._

The clock reached zero. There was a noise so loud she couldn't hear it, and a light so bright she couldn't see it. And then there was nothing.

**JOHN WATSON**

Lestrade was talking to Sherlock, _arguing_ with Sherlock. The detective inspector could not see how he was supposed to remedy Sherlock's lapse in understanding, and Sherlock could not see what was so difficult about sending two dozen police cars out to scour the city of London for any sign of Moriarty or his undercover henchmen.

They had been at it for the last forty-five minutes. John was just grateful that Lestrade had not brought his team with - it was far too early to deal with Sally's insinuations about Sherlock's usefulness.

His phone buzzed. The number was Mary's. He read the text message once. He read it again.

"Sherlock?" If John's voice sounded an octave higher than normal, he chose to ignore it. Sherlock, on the other hand, took note of that fact, analyzed it, and came to the conclusion that something was very, very wrong.

"Yes, John?" he said, stepping away from the detective inspector. Lestrade followed close behind.

"Read this," John said, handing Sherlock his mobile. Sherlock read the message, and his eyes widened. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"This is from Mary?"

"Yes."

"It's nonsense,"" Lestrade said, reading it over Sherlock's shoulder. "Why would she send that?"

"It's not nonsense," Sherlock snapped, beginning to shake almost imperceptibly. "It's a skip code. Mary knows skip codes, remember? Every third word." He handed the phone back to John, who re-read the message with a sinking heart. The text now read:

_John - Don't be made at Mycroft. Sheryl is safe. Moriarty did it. Be safe. - I love you. - Mary Watson_

At that moment, Lestrade's own mobile rang. He answered it hesitantly.

"Anderson?"

When he hung up a minute later, he too was shaking.

"There's... been an explosion," he announced. "In an apartment building on Elvanston Street."

* * *

Yup. I went there. Sorry. I guess my best justification is that Mary dies in book!canon too, and it is sort of integral to my quasi-plot. Finally, the Morse Code WAS formatted correctly, but FFN seems to have some kind of problem with having four periods or underscores next to each other, so now it's all jacked up. It bothers me from an "artistic integrity" point of view, so if you find yourself as annoyed as I am, it is correct on my Wattpad version of it.


	3. Elvanston Street

Sorry this has taken so long to update: my school has been performing Fiddler on the Roof this week and last, so I've been very busy with shows and rehearsals. I'd also wanted to have a friend review this for me before I posted it, but for the same reasons, that has not happened. Hopefully, then, this is alright and not OOC or awkwardly composed or what-have-you. Please do comment - your feedback reminds me that I have actual, carbon-based lifeforms reading this and inspires me to write faster.

* * *

Elvanston Street

Lestrade's statement was met with a deafening silence.

John sank slowly to his knees, feeling like the ground was falling away beneath him. Sherlock made some sort of exclamation; John could not tell what he had said through the thick fog descending over him.

It was like being underwater. Everything was blurred, and sounds seemed muffled.

Lestrade said something about shock, at which Sherlock tried to pull him back to his feet. John did not resist; he let himself be led from the floor of the manor to the veranda. How fresh air was supposed to ease his despair, he didn't know, but he decided to humor the detective inspector. Besides, there was something in Sherlock's expression that drove him to quiet compliance. The dark-haired genius rarely displayed concern for others, but the fraction of John's brain that had not ground to a screeching halt recognized the worry and self-loathing in Sherlock's features and responded accordingly.

"John."

A series of synapses fired, and the doctor registered that Sherlock was shaking him hesitantly by the shoulder. John turned slowly to face the detective, but his mind was miles away.

"John. I'm... I... I don't know what to say," Sherlock finished lamely, staring at the ground.

John opened his mouth. He closed it, then opened it again.

"I suppose that makes two of us," he said finally.

"John," repeated Sherlock, still staring at the ground, "I need you not to go into shock right now. I... was not exaggerating when I said I would be lost without my blogger. And if we -"

Lestrade approached the veranda. Apparently, he had gone down to his patrol car after seeing the doctor safely outside. John hadn't even noticed.

"Get in," he said, not unkindly. "I'll drive us over to Elvanston Street, shall I?"

Taking John again by the arm, Sherlock led him down the drive to where the police vehicle was parked by the gate. The whole way there, the detective looked as though he were fighting with himself. The little twitches, out-of-place blinks, subtle puckerings of his lips, would have been indistinguishable to the casual observer, but John, who knew him better than most, saw on that usually-expressionless face a veritable battleground of emotions, and for once, the doctor felt he could keep up with the detective's train of thought.

Sherlock did not want him to see his flat, or what was left of it, plain and simple. The detective knew, however, that John required closure, would not rest until he saw for himself what Moriarty had done. So when they reached the police car and Sherlock began to say something presumably awkward and well-intentioned but poorly worded, John stopped him.

"Sherlock. Shut up. I _need_ to see this."

The taller man blinked, his face sliding back into its typical mask of calm composure.

"That's... actually not at all what I was thinking about just now, John, but as you say, I'll not stop you."

The doctor tried for a disbelieving scoff, but suspected it was affected somewhat more with hysteria than he would have liked.

On any other day, John might have marveled at the novelty of sitting in a patrol car without wearing handcuffs; today, he leaned back in the plastic seat and took a deep breath, staring blankly at the scenery as it flashed past.

Elvanston Street was a mess of ambulances, police, and fire trucks. A swarm of curious bystanders were being ordered from the scene where, with a thrill of horror, John realized his flat used to be. When Lestrade stopped the car, the doctor stumbled out, Sherlock catching the door behind him. Donovan was on crowd control; seeing them approach, she cut an aisle through the gaggle of onlookers and let them through, for once in her life saying nothing at all. There was a line of sagging yellow tape stretched across the front of the ruined building. John stood before it on the charred remnants of his sidewalk and tried to take it in.

The bomb had blown a hole straight through the flat, blasting through walls and furniture and joists. Piles of rubble were all that remained of the once-homey place, and everything lay still and saturnine under a shroud of ash. With the ground floor largely decimated, the apartments above were beginning to sink and bow under their own weight. A team was working to erect a support to stop them collapsing altogether, while another was working to smother the electrical fires that sprung up where circuitry had melted.

John ducked hesitantly under the police tape, stepping gingerly on the blackened floor. He could sense Sherlock doing the same behind him, but his focus was all on the scene before him. It wasn't until he rubbed his face and his hand came away wet that he realized he was crying.

Picking a path through the desolate, almost alien, landscape, the blonde man worked his way back to the epicenter of the explosion, which he judged to be the bathroom. Here there was the greatest level of incineration, and it appeared that all the debris had burst in an outward radius from that point.

"Sherlock," John said softly. "Read it for me."

It wasn't as if it was particularly difficult to work out the details himself - the signs were still fresh, still clear, after all - but for some reason he needed to hear the detective say it.

Behind him, Sherlock drew a deep breath.

"Uh, well, the marks in the soot suggest that - that Mary stood here when the bomb went off. Probably Semtex; Moriarty's used it before - you'll remember that, of course. We can't say for sure until they run the tests for the airborne vapor tagging agent, but it's a common enough explosive for building demolition (it's also a tightly controlled substance, but that doesn't mean anything to a man of Moriarty's means), so that seems safe to hypothesize. This was your bathroom; obvious to anyone familiar with the standard layout of the rooms in this building, or to anyone who's been here before, as well as there being the telltale presence of melted shards of glass over there from the mirror. Ah, the ceramic chips on this side came from the toilet, and... the cast iron is from the bathtub. Um..."

"Sherlock," John said in the same quiet, flat tone of voice, "where is my wife's body?"

"John, I don't know that that's a good -"

"Just tell me, Sherlock."

The dark haired detective took another, shakier breath.

"Well, if she was standing here -" He stepped around John and planted his feet on the faint marks on the sooty floor he'd indicated earlier "- the blast appears to have been a particularly strong one - you have entire walls laid out here - but emanating from a small, concentrated area. Balance of probability suggests that she was facing the bomb when it went off, as she'd sent you a text, so she clearly understood what was coming. Relating the size of the blast radius and your wife's BMI, the explosion will have carried her -" He turned and pointed to a spot twenty-odd feet away, where a mass of rubble was piled, "- there."

John turned himself and began walking stoically toward the indicated pile.

"John," Sherlock insisted, catching him by the arm. "I really don't think you should see this."

"I'm a doctor, and a war veteran," John replied stonily. "I've seen people killed in explosions before."

"But this is your _wife_," the detective pressed. "It's _different_. There's a sentimental element that -"

"That you wouldn't know anything about." John wrenched his shoulder from Sherlock's grip. "I have to know that she's dead. I have to know that she's not going to come waltzing back into my life two years from now, cool as you please, like nothing is wrong. I have to know she's not coming back." His voice broke on the last word as Sherlock's eyes widened in comprehension; he had meant to hurt Sherlock, wanted him to feel some infinitesimal slice of his pain, but it only hurt all the more to see that he had succeeded.

Brushing brusquely past the stunned detective, John began tearing through shattered beams and crumbling drywall. He said nothing to stop Sherlock waving Lestrade over, only dug with a greater furor.

The first thing he uncovered was a hand. That alone brought him close to losing his nerve; the flesh was horribly burned, a scarlet-brown-black that was positively skeletal in appearance. It had been several years since he'd last had the misfortune to examine a mortar victim, and found he needed to re-steel himself against the sight. He had held that hand only last night, traced the faint pattern of blue veins under pale skin.

Breathing harder, John pushed more of the dross out of his way, revealing a mangled torso and an appendage that once had been a head. It was undoubtedly Mary.

Lestrade took that opportunity to approach cautiously.

"Er, John," he began, "if it's alright, we'll run some DNA tests and the like - make sure it's not... er... you know, another one of Moriarty's tricks..." He trailed off uncertainly.

"Run your tests if you like, Greg," John said softly. "But it's Mary. I know my wife when I see her."

And he could see her, could see her beautiful face reconstructed over that lurid corpse, knew how the plates of that skull were supposed to be fused together. His doctor's vision took it all in, analyzed it, and John found in that moment that he had absolutely no idea what to do.

He allowed Lestrade's team to move the body, remaining in place, kneeling and bent over the broken fragments of his life which had, only that morning, seemed so intriguing and full of promise.

"Sherlock," he said quietly, knowing full well that the detective was standing just behind him. "Why her?"

Sherlock shifted his weight uncomfortably. "How do you mean?"

"Why is she dead? Convince me that this isn't my fault. Tell me why Moriarty killed her, and not me. She wasn't even _involved_."

It was several minutes before the taller man spoke. When he did, his voice was cool and unaffected as ever.

"When I came back after my 'absence', you said you didn't care how I'd done it. Your question was _why_ I'd done it. I told you then that the why of it was harder to explain. This... This is why. I believed Moriarty was dead; to this day, I am not certain how he survived. But at the very least, I knew Moriarty had a powerful global network that had the potential to get to me if they knew that I lived, a network I was set and bound to unravel from the inside. So I did the only thing I could do - I disappeared. I could not even tell you that I was alright because you yourself had to be totally convinced by the deception, else you were in grave danger. You see? If you knew I was alive, if your mourning me was in any way contrived, Moriarty's people would have figured it out as well, and would have hurt you to get to me. Every day I worried that someone would discover my deception, that I would get a text from Mycroft saying you'd been kidnapped or shot. When at last I'd torn apart the roots of Moriarty's network, I returned to London, thinking it was safe, just in time to sort out that terrorist attack on parliament with you. You'd met Mary, were happy, and everything seemed calmer than it had in a long while. But then Moriarty came back. Apparently, he took a page out of Magnussen's book, using Mary against the both of us instead of you against me. So, what I am attempting to convey, however unsuccessfully, is that this is really _my_ fault. Not yours. And... I am sorry to have been the cause of your misfortune."

John lifted his head to stare at the detective, his eyes red and puffy with saltwater.

"I'm going to kill him," he said. "I am going to _kill him_. And no-one is going to stop me. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Sherlock replied briskly. "Does that mean you're going to help me solve this 'final problem'? It is definitely going to be dangerous, at best."

"Moriarty can do his worst," John spat, grabbing Sherlock by the hand and pulling himself up. "I've not got a whole lot else to lose, have I? And what little I do have is in danger for as long as he's alive. So help me God, I'll see him buried six feet under if it kills me, too. And you are going to help me, Sherlock."

"Yes, John, I am."

They're conversation was interrupted by the conspicuous arrival of a sleek black car at the crime scene. Sherlock glared across the decimated landscape at the tall figure disembarking.

"Marvelous," he growled. "I was wondering when he was going to show up."

In a flash, John remembered Mary's text: _Don't be mad at_ _Mycroft_. What did he know about this? John was finding Mary's instructions rather hard to follow as he began to wonder if this was somehow preventable, if Mycroft could have stopped his wife dying. Now glaring as well, the doctor crossed his arms and contented himself to stare at the man picking his way through the ashes, occasionally knocking an inconvenient bit of debris to the side with the tip of an umbrella.

When Mycroft reached them, he retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing daintily at his nose.

"The dust in here is simply _loathsome_," he grumbled. "It's playing havoc with my breathing."

"You're sure it's not the two pounds you've added to your middle since last I saw you?" Sherlock asked snidely.

The elder Holmes tutted. "Pound and a quarter, brother-mine," he corrected, replacing his handkerchief.

"Bathroom scales never provide wholly accurate readings, _brother-mine_. Two pounds."

Mycroft chose to ignore this, turning instead to John.

"Dr. Watson. So sorry to hear about this mess. Truly, a nasty business."

"What do you know about it?" John asked shortly. If there was one thing he had no patience for just then, it was Mycroft's little verbal games.

"Not much, I'm afraid," the politician sighed. "I received a text from your wife early this morning - interrupted my morning jog."

"You never jog in the morning," Sherlock interjected.

"- and she requested a favor," Mycroft finished doggedly. "She said she needed someone to look after the baby for a few hours. Didn't say why, and out of respect for her privacy, I didn't inquire any further."

"So much for discretion" John said bitterly, to which Mycroft snorted.

"My dear John, I assure you I hadn't the foggiest indication that Moriarty was planning to blow your flat to smithereens. You know Mary's background, or at least the gist of it; surely you can see why I assumed she had some personal business of a sensitive nature. I felt it imprudent to pry."

"So you're babysitting my daughter?" John asked, his eyes narrowing even further.

"Well, not me personally," Mycroft clarified with a small shrug. "MI6 is looking after her."

"Using her for target practice, more likely," Sherlock said under his breath.

"Oh please, Sherlock, don't be melodramatic. England does need her blunt instruments, even if they lack your... subtlety. Sheryl is perfectly safe."

"Where is she?" asked John.

"I'm afraid I cannot disclose her location at present; too much danger of someone listening in. Why don't you drop by the Diogenes Club tomorrow and we'll chat. I've a case I need Sherlock to look at, anyway."

"Related?" the detective asked.

"Possibly. There's no evidence to suggest a connection so far, but one never knows with Moriarty. Shall we say 10:00 tomorrow morning?"

John nodded. "We'll be there."

"And exactly where are you staying tonight?" Mycroft asked keenly. "You can't hardly sleep here, now can you?"

"He's coming back to 221B," Sherlock said immediately.

"Am I?" John asked in surprise. It was true, he needed lodgings for the evening, but he wasn't sure yet whether he was angry with Sherlock or not, and did not know that he wanted to spend a night in the same flat.

"Aren't you?" the detective asked with a frown. "My brother, insufferable as he is, is quite correct; you can hardly spend the night in this place."

"Yeah, funnily enough, I'd figured that out," John snapped. "But I can room in a hotel for the night."

Sherlock shook his head. "Save what you've got in the bank. We'll need it later if we're going to see Moriarty to the fate he deserves."

"But I -"

John stopped mid-sentence. What was the point of arguing with him? He'd only end up out-logiced and agreeable anyway. Sighing, John threw his hands up.

"Alright. I'll go back to Baker Street."

"Good," Sherlock said, as if that settled matters. "Come, Mycroft, and give us a lift."

Driving to the flat of the younger Holmes cemented some of the situation's reality in John's heart. He was returning to 221B for an indeterminate length of time. Mary was gone. His flat was gone. Sheryl was... elsewhere, but at least she was safe. John chuckled faintly to himself, wondering if Sherlock would mind sharing the flat with a baby. The answer was almost certainly "yes".

Mycroft did not see them to the door. Rather, he nodded a cordial, politely sympathetic goodbye, and motioned to his chauffeur to walk Sherlock and the doctor inside.

Mrs. Hudson rushed to meet Sherlock at the door, exclaiming in pleasant surprise when she saw John was with him.

"Oh, John dear, I haven't seen you in -"

"Now is an unideal time, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock interrupted.

John murmured hello and began climbing up the stairs, pretending that he did not notice the very slight limp catching his foot on the steps. Below him, he could hear Sherlock explaining the morning's events to their landlady, and Mrs. Hudson's own cry of shock and horror.

Sherlock was not one for casual visitors, and both men had been so busy of late that it had been nigh on six months since the doctor had set foot in the Baker Street apartment building, but the dingy walls were the same green-grey he remembered. Apartment B opened to his touch, and John felt a bizarre pang of nostalgia and affection sweep over him as he surveyed the unkempt living room, his own reddish armchair across from the detective's, and the fireplace submerged under the trappings of some new experiment. There was a new scorch mark in the center of the kitchen table, and it seemed that Sherlock had taken to having Mrs. Hudson dust even less frequently than usual, but otherwise, the small apartment too was unchanged.

With what felt like his hundredth sigh of that day, John sank into his chair, grabbing the Union Jack pillow and burying his face in it. Everything was wrong. He was passed shock, passed tears, so this was... what? Numbness? Denial? Doubtless, his therapist would have a thoroughly unhelpful label for it. He could hear the door creak as Sherlock opened it, perceived his removing his long coat and hanging it on the wall. John did not look behind him as Sherlock strode into the kitchen, nor did the detective make any attempt at conversation.

John did look up, however, when he heard the clink of a glass on the table next to him. There was a green mug of steaming tea resting on the old wood, and Sherlock was in the midst of raising a similar glass to his lips. He saw John looking, and something softened at the edges of hard grey eyes.

"Black with no sugar, am I right?" he asked, turning to face out the curtained window.

"You remembered." John lifted the mug, cradling the hot ceramic vessel in his hands. "I thought you would have deleted it."

Sherlock shrugged his narrow shoulders.

"After the Baskerville case, it seemed like prudent information."

John glanced suspiciously at his tea.

"This isn't drugged, is it?"

Sherlock chuckled. "No. Not unless you're counting the natural caffein content of tea leaves a drug. There are some pills on the counter, though, if you'd like to sleep."

John raised his eyebrows. "You're being awfully considerate."

"It is possible for me to be, you know," the raven haired man replied, drawing his violin case from under a stack of newspapers. "Most people just aren't worth the trouble."

John sipped his tea, sensing a warmth he hadn't felt all day unfurl in his chest. Sherlock Holmes was a dick, granted, but he certainly hadn't had to offer John a place to spend the night, and his making tea without being threatened at gunpoint was practically unprecedented. As Sherlock began playing (Debussy's _Reverie_, unless he was mistaken), John felt himself beginning to nod off.

A pillow hit him in the face. Startled, he sat upright, finding Sherlock staring at him amusedly.

"You would have regretted falling asleep like that," he said. "Bad for your neck. Could get a cramp."

"I wasn't sleeping," John said irritably.

"Slower breathing. Pulse decreasing. Eyes closed for an extended period of time. You were dozing. Go up to bed. I'll stay down here and play for a while."

Too fatigued to put up a fight, John dragged himself down the hall and collapsed in his old bed, ignoring the cloud of dust that rose from the disused sheets. Below him, Sherlock picked up where he had left off, letting the melancholy notes roll off his Stradivarius.

The doctor was in mourning and he had been up since dawn. Sleep was not long in taking him, even as mid-morning daylight poured through the window.

...

When he woke, the bedroom was no longer bright.

When he woke, he was screaming.

It took John a moment to realize that it was his voice letting off that horrible din, and once he did, the scream was slow to die, not eager to be cut off and repressed inside. John could hear feet in the hall; Sherlock had surely heard him cry out and was coming to see what was the matter. The doctor couldn't bring himself to care.

Nightmare-images were still flickering at the edges of his vision.

_Men with guns. A desert wasteland, still hot under the glow of the young moon._

_Red sand. Sand and blood. Explosions. Gunfire. Men screaming. Men falling._

_Memories - but not memories, because now the soldiers had the wrong faces, and it was Sherlock lying dead in the sand, and Moriarty pointing the gun, and Mary was - Mary was -_

John let out a choked sob only to discover, much to his discomfiture, that Sherlock was perched on the edge of the bed's foot, staring at him with the intensity he generally reserved for particularly tricky problems.

"You were dreaming," Sherlock said. It was not a question.

Silently, wiping his face on the eiderdown, John nodded.

"A nightmare," the detective continued.

John nodded again.

"You haven't had one in a while, and this dream was particularly intense."

"Is there any point," John began, half-laughing through his distress into the sweat-stained fabric, "in asking how you know that?"

Sherlock cocked his head slightly. "It was more an estimation than my usual. You had nightmares the first two weeks or so after moving in with me for the first time. Then they faded. They started again after the incident at the pool. Fear-induced, then, and only by highly charged situations. Playing the violin seemed to help eliminate them, and it wasn't long before you slept through the night again. Your time with your wife worked wonders for your sleeping habits - the circles under your eyes had disappeared entirely after a month with her, even when you and I worked night cases. I could only conclude that yesterday's events caused the dreams to reemerge, and though I was playing the whole time, you still woke in a state of agitation. Thus, it must have been worse than usual."

"You really are brilliant, you know that?" John asked shaking his head.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock smiled. "But then, so are you. It's not every man who'll move back in with someone who indirectly caused his wife's murder."

John laughed mirthlessly. "It's also not every man who takes another under his roof when said person is at risk of going the same way as his wife. You do realize that for as long as I'm under your roof, this place is at risk of blowing up, too? Moriarty's bound to come after me next."

"Yes, he is," Sherlock said frankly. "Which is why it's all the more vital that you stay with me. Moriarty doesn't want me dead yet - he wants me to suffer in my guilt awhile, first. He won't plant a bomb in 221B when there's a danger of my being killed prematurely."

"Lovely," John groaned, leaning back against the headboard. "Now we really will have to be inseparable. People are bound to talk."

"People already talk," Sherlock said dismissively. "And if they can't understand your wanting to be nearer your friends after your loss, then they aren't worth your time."

"You got that from a book."

"Where else?"

The doctor leaned over, squinting at the red numbers on the digital alarm.

"What time is it?"

"2:34 in the morning. Go back to sleep. I'll play violin for a while yet; I'm composing."

Sherlock stood to leave, but when John hesitantly held up his hand, the detective stopped in his tracks.

"Yes?"

How he knew John was motioning him to wait was as irrelevant as it was immaterial.

"Would you... sit in here to play?" the blonde man requested. "I think I might sleep better."

For a moment, Sherlock said nothing, and John was afraid he might refuse. But then the taller man nodded shortly and said, "This is a sentimental thing, correct? Human presence as a basis for comfort?"

"Yes."

"Then of course. Let me just get my case."

John sat in bed, irrationally fearful that the last certainty in his life would disappear on its brief journey to the living room. Sherlock returned momentarily, however, and stood himself next to John's dresser. The detective set his bow against the strings of his violin, looking to John for a cue as to what exactly he was supposed to be doing.

The doctor laid back down against the pillows, drawing the comforter close to his chin. He felt uncommonly vulnerable, but then, who wouldn't, after the sort of day he had had?

"What shall I play?" Sherlock asked, his features glowing white in the faint moonlight.

"Anything's fine," John mumbled. A few bars of music floated across the bedroom. Frowning, the blonde man asked, "Is that Lady Gaga?"

Sherlock chuckled softly. "Haven't the foggiest. Lestrade had it playing on the radio this morning. I was just wondering if you'd notice."

Switching tunes, he began to play Stravinsky's _Firebird Suite_. John blinked heavily, falling at last into a dreamless sleep, holding nightmares at bay until morning's light.


	4. Unusual Requests

Sorry about the length of my update time, yada yada yada, insert excuse here, all that jazz. Just a note: there's actual slashiness in this part! Yay! It didn't take me 10 chapters this time! Let me know what you think, please.

* * *

Unusual Requests

**JOHN WATSON**

When John got out of the shower, it was nearing 9:00. He found Sherlock standing in the living room, staring intently at the photographs pinned to the wall as if he could set them on fire just by looking hard enough. The doctor would not have been surprised if the incorrigible detective once had conducted an experiment precisely to test the feasibility of doing so.

Sherlock still wore his clothes from the day before, and between his unkempt curls and the fact that his violin lay abandoned on the mantelpiece rather than back in its case, the evidence suggested that the man had gotten no sleep whatsoever.

He did not look up when John walked in, but said, "Phone."

"Where is it?" John sighed. How the detective had survived without him there to answer his every beck and call was beyond his comprehension.

"Table."

Sure enough, the small mobile sat discarded on the side table next to a used nicotine patch. The doctor retrieved the desired device, but frowned at the reminder of his friend's addiction.

"Exactly how many of those have you gone through this morning?" he asked, placing the mobile in the detective's hand.

It did not take a person of Sherlock Holmes' intelligence to work out what he was referring to.

"Four," Sherlock replied, opening his camera app and flipping through his photos, the lines in his face deepening as he did so.

"Four?" John spluttered.

"It's a four patch problem," the detective said, holding his phone, now displaying a photograph of the dead librarian, up to the rest of his collage.

"What is?"

"This." Sherlock gestured at the wall. "Moriarty loves riddles. He is telling us something with the crimes this past week. The jewelry store. The library. The school. The manor. But what is the connection?"

"Haven't the foggiest," John said. "Aren't we meeting Mycroft this morning?"

The doctor had been expecting a grunt in reply, if anything, but Sherlock actually turned to him, a fanatic light glinting in his eyes.

"Yes," he said. "And we'll hear what Mycroft has to say. Perhaps this case of his will prove to be the missing link I need. Eat your breakfast, and then we can go."

"You're eating, too," John said, heading for the kitchen.

"I am not," the detective huffed, as if the very notion were absurd.

"I'm not running around London with you when you haven't eaten, especially since you haven't slept yet, either," John informed him irritably, pulling the eggs out of the refrigerator (thankfully free of severed heads). He also retrieved a skillet from the cabinet, and set about scrambling a couple of the eggs.

"How do you know I haven't slept?" Sherlock asked, dropping into a kitchen chair and watching the doctor cook.

"Please, Sherlock, I'm not _that_ oblivious," John grimaced. He turned the heat off the eggs, dropped a pair of bread slices into the toaster, and brushed his hands off on his slacks, leaning against the oven to frown at his old flatmate.

"Well, go on then," Sherlock prompted. "Tell me how you figured it out."

"You're you. You already know how I figured it out."

"I know how _I_ would have figured it out, but your mind works differently." Sherlock sat up a little straighter at the table, pressing his finger tips together. "What clued you in?"

Scooping eggs on to toast and setting a plate in front of the detective, John, took the other seat at the table and dug into his own breakfast. "I'll tell you," he said between bites, "but only if you eat."

Sherlock lifted his toast disdainfully. "But... really John? Eggs on toast? Could you possibly be more mundane?"

John shrugged. "Mundane is good. It's nice to have a little mundaneness in between your house blowing up and chasing serial killers. Too much adrenaline is bad for the heart. Now eat."

"Eggs are also bad for the heart," Sherlock pointed out. "All that cholesterol can really -"

"Shut up and eat."

The detective took a reluctant bite of toast, trying his utmost to pout and chew simultaneously.

"Well?" he asked impetuously when the food was half-gone.

John glanced meaningfully at what was left of the detective's toast, wiping his lips on his napkin.

"You must have already been up late playing if you heard me wake up at 2:30 in the morning," he said. "Your hair is a mess, and you always comb it when you get up. You never bothered putting your violin away, and on top of it all, you have a problem to be solving. It wasn't very difficult to figure out."

"But my eyes aren't bloodshot," Sherlock argued. "I do not appear fatigued. Maybe I just forgot to brush my hair this morning."

"As if," John snorted. "You're quite vain about your appearance."

"I am not," the detective said petulantly, crossing his arms.

"You are."

"I'm sure you think that was quite clever of you."

John grunted a non-answer.

"Come on, John. We'll be late for our appointment with my brother," Sherlock said, jumping up from his place.

"Is the great Sherlock Holmes conceding defeat?" John asked with mock astonishment.

"You've already decreased my mental faculty by forcing me to eat on a case," the other man sniffed. "I'll not expend any more of my energy proving myself correct."

"Well, I suppose there's a first time for everything," John muttered, clearing the plates.

"Come _on_, John!" Sherlock repeated, donning his coat in the living room. "The game is on!"

"Some game," the doctor murmured heaven-wards.

...

Mycroft was reclining in a black leather chair when they arrived, perusing the newspaper. He barely spared the pair a glance when they ducked inside the small private room, simply waving them to the two significantly less-plush chairs set aside for visitors to the Diogenes.

"Rough night, doctor?" the elder Holmes asked, flipping a page. John did not grace the query with a reply, rolling his eyes and taking the seat next to Sherlock.

"You wanted to talk," the blonde man said curtly. "So talk."

"Mmm, a sleeping disorder and a hostile attitude," Mycroft commented, his eyes still fixed on his paper. "What a winning combination."

"Just as well, then, that I don't particularly care what you think of me," John parried, crossing his legs.

"You should care," the politician said, folding his paper and setting it to the side. "I have the power to make life very difficult for you."

"As entertaining as this verbal sparring match is," Sherlock cut in, "I was under the impression that we were here on business."

"Too true," Mycroft sighed. "We've had a bit of an... incident."

"Brilliant," Sherlock groaned, massaging his temples. "Which piece of top-secret, priority information has gone missing this time? The non-aggression treaty with Russia? The reports on domestic terrorism?"

"Neither, actually," Mycroft said, his voice like ice. "I think even you haven't heard of this one."

"Go on." Sherlock sounded bored, but John could see the spark of interest lurking in his eyes, and it seemed that Mycroft could, too, because he gave a small, satisfied smile.

"There is a... faction within the British government that has been proving, shall we say, _difficult_ these last few weeks, making it something of a trial for me to see certain pieces of legislation passed. I came into possession of some information that could be used to effectively minimize the opposition."

Sherlock tisked. "Dear me, brother-mine, blackmail? That's a new low, even for you."

"I prefer to think of it as _negotiation_," Mycroft said severely. "This information is only privy to myself and two other people, as well, obviously, as to those whom the intelligence concerned."

"But you feel you have a leak?" John asked with a frown.

"Whatever makes you say that?" the older Holmes asked, raising his eyebrows.

"You said you had a case," John pointed out. "The last time something like this came up, it was because someone had stolen the plans for a new missile defense system. From what you've said, I can only assume that you're concerned about your 'intelligence' leaking."

"Not a bad deduction, John," Sherlock smiled, "but it does skim over a few of the facts. For instance, the information's availability. Obviously, the people it concerns would be unwilling to volunteer the details as doing so would put their job at risk. Moreover, my brother has informed us that only three outsiders are aware of the particulars - himself and two others. Any pool that Mycroft puts himself into is bound to at the height of discretion - it's all part of the political game."

"Quite so," Mycroft nodded. "Our confidants are entirely trustworthy."

"Then what's the trouble?" John asked, confused.

"The trouble," Mycroft said, looking hard at him, "is that one of the Ministers of Parliament has gone missing. Coincidentally, the MP in question is one of those on whom we have information. And you know how I feel about 'coincidence'."

"The universe is rarely so lazy," Sherlock murmured, mantra-like, under his breath. "Indeed."

"I have his information here: James Larkin, resident of a flat just a minute's cab ride from Whitehall." Mycroft handed Sherlock a folder containing a half-dozen papers. A photograph was paper clipped to the front. "I need you to find out everything you can about him."

"When did he disappear?" the detective asked, eyes skimming the contents of the folder greedily.

"Yesterday morning. He was at work and left for an early lunch - not unusual for him. He never returned. His wife, Ashley, has not yet been informed."

Sherlock's expression twisted. "What did you tell her?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Mycroft stalled, sounding far too innocent.

"Please," the younger brother spat. "A woman's husband, an MP of significant influence, no less, and privy to incriminating information, vanishes overnight, and you expect me to believe that you haven't given the wife any sort of cover story? If you want this solved, I need the _facts_, brother-mine, and not your usual BS."

Mycroft's jaw tightened at Sherlock's outburst, but the politician restrained the cutting remark that was doubtless balancing on the edge of his tongue.

"Very well. Mrs. Larkin called into the office, of course, when her husband failed to return home last night. She was told that a series of debates over a new bill had become very heated and that James was stuck in an extended meeting. Larkin's assistant gave her the government's personal assurances that her husband would be out of the house for a period of approximately twenty-four hours until the present "crisis" blew over. Naturally, the details of said crisis were extremely vague."

"Naturally," Sherlock sneered.

"Wait a minute," John interjected. "Are you saying that this woman's husband is missing, probably kidnapped, and you didn't bother to tell her?"

"He really is so simple-minded," Mycroft said to Sherlock. "What's it like to have a... _goldfish_?"

John's initial reaction was one of deep-seated annoyance. He was surrounded on all sides by half-crazed, genius sociopaths, and the constant comparisons between him and pet animals were seriously beginning to grate. Thus it was that he missed the slight twitch of Sherlock's fingers, though even had he seen the minute movement, it is unlikely that he would have catalogued its meaning in quite the same way that the older of the two Holmeses did. He was hardly given a moment to glower at Mycroft, however, before the man turned back to him.

"No, John, I did not tell Mrs. Larkin that her husband is missing. The last thing I need at the present is a hysterical woman going to the press over this."

"She has a right to know!" John said angrily.

"What right?" Mycroft scoffed. "That information is available on a strictly need-to-know basis, and she does not need to know. Tell me, John, would it help find her husband to tell her he's missing? No. It would only upset her, and I cannot have this little incident becoming public knowledge. Sherlock will find him and avert the problem. She never has to know a thing."

"I don't like this idea, brother," the detective said, pursing his lips.

"I don't either," John agreed. "I mean, he's her hus-"

"That's not what I mean, John," the detective cut him off. "It's the _housebreaking_ I don't care for."

"What?" John turned from one Holmes to the other. "But Mycroft hasn't said anything about housebreaking!"

"Elementary," Sherlock dismissed him. "The assistant told the woman yesterday that her husband would be gone twenty-four hours. It has now been very nearly that length of time. As I hardly think Mycroft expects me to find Larkin this afternoon, particularly if this is somehow linked to someone as careful as Moriarty, I can only conclude that he intends for me to disguise myself as the woman's husband, return "home", and search the house for evidence of where he might have gone."

John gaped at his flatmate until he was forcibly reminded of Mycroft's "goldfish" metaphor, at which he snapped his jaw shut.

"But..." he said feebly. "But... you don't even _look_ like him."

"Well, that's nothing a little makeup can't fix," Mycroft smiled thinly. "I have a USB stick for you as well - the videos are from the CCTV cameras outside Larkin's flat. Study his mannerisms and be prepared to drive there as soon as you're dressed for the part. There is a great deal hanging on this, Sherlock." He withdrew a small black jump drive from his breast pocket and handed it to the detective.

"You owe me," Sherlock said mildly, taking the device from his brother.

Mycroft laughed humorlessly. "In your dreams, brother-mine. I hardly think giving you a case and a potential lead together qualifies as my owing you; if anything, _you_ owe _me_."

"Also untrue," Sherlock said coolly, "because when I find your man, I avert a loss of face for the British government. Come, John."

"Hold on a minute," the doctor said, getting to his feet. "I came here for one reason today, and with all your posturing, we haven't even touched on it." He turned sharply to face Mycroft. "Where is Sheryl?"

"As I told you yesterday, you daughter is quite safe," Mycroft said, standing as well so as to see them to the door. "There is a secret location outside of London where MI6 has a base. She's being very well-tended there. I had Anthea see to it that a nurse was hired specifically for Sheryl's care. You needn't fret."

"And Moriarty can't find her there?" John asked, refusing to be so easily placated.

Mycroft cocked his head slightly, a gesture that John found eerily reminiscent of his younger brother. "Unlikely," the politician said. "Outside of MI6, the number of people who know the bunker's location is exceptionally short. I could count them for you on one hand and have fingers left over. The probability of the information getting to our favorite terrorist is impractically low."

"Which, as I told you," said Sherlock, his baritone even lower than usual, "makes _you_ his next target. Not your daughter."

"Quite so," Mycroft agreed unconcernedly. "Therefore, I think it's rather time you two left and got to work solving this latest little puzzle. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Do you have what I'm wearing worked out as well?" Sherlock asked, his expression tending toward sardonic.

"Anthea will provide you with what you need," the elder Holmes replied, gesturing to the door. "You'll be given clothing identical to what Larkin wore to the office yesterday, as well as the prosthetics you need to make over your face. Luckily, Larkin was a tall man; you should only have to slouch a little to match his height. The MP was under surveillance ever since he became a thorn in my side, and a few of the CCTV cameras were audio enabled, so we have records of his speech patterns. It should be no trouble for someone of your... _talents_ to reproduce."

"I can't believe this," John muttered aloud as he and Sherlock climbed down the steps of the Diogenes. "This is by far the most _absurd_ -"

"More absurd than 'The Elephant in the Room'?" Sherlock asked with a smirk.

"_Yes_," the doctor said emphatically. "Because then my flatmate was not dressing as someone else's husband and masquerading as a government official!"

"Oh, please, John," Sherlock scoffed. "I've adopted stranger disguises for stranger requests than this before. I disagree with my brother's methods -"

"Well, really, who wouldn't?" John said angrily. "Having you impersonate some poor woman's -"

"- because it would be so much easier to just break in through the window without having to bother with an acting stunt," Sherlock continued, as if his companion had not spoken. "But she's expecting me, so I'll have to go, and I need someone to back me up, so obviously you have to be there as well. There's no other viable option at present."

John rolled his eyes, knowing that it would do no good to argue further. Outside, Mycroft's black car was waiting for them. The driver held the door while they climbed in, John getting squeezed in the middle between Anthea and Sherlock. He couldn't settle on which was a more awkward position. As Anthea leaned over to pass Sherlock a bundle of clothing and the doctor caught himself reflecting (again) on how pretty she was, he came to the decision that he would rather be scrunched up next to an oblivious (and male) Sherlock Holmes than a completely uninterested, completely attractive (and female) Anthea any day of the week.

"- have to be careful with where you put the latex," Anthea was explaining as she showed the detective the prosthetic features Mycroft had had ordered. "It doesn't feel quite like skin, so you can't apply it anywhere Mrs. Larkin might touch."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "That seems rather pointless," he drawled. "The woman is bound to make some display of affection after her husband has been out since yesterday. I can't exactly do that if she can't also touch my face."

Anthea shrugged. "Not my issue. You'll figure it out."

Sherlock began shifting through the clothes, scowling and muttering things about "poor taste" and "wasting fabric".

They were not long in arriving at Sherlock's (and now John's? Again?) flat. Anthea barely looked up from her phone as the men climbed out onto the pavement, presumably already informing Mycroft that they had made it to Baker Street without getting shot at. Sherlock was already undoing the buttons on his shirt as he pushed his way in through the front door.

"Back already, boys?" Mrs. Hudson asked, scurrying down the hall towards them. "Sherlock, what on _earth _-"

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson," the detective mumbled, trying to talk while holding some black article of clothing in his mouth. "'Urry, John, no' much time."

John shrugged helplessly at their flustered landlady, hoping that Sherlock wasn't going to start changing then and there on the stairs.

"Er, Sherlock...?" he began, but the dark haired man stumbled into 221B, slamming the upstairs door behind him, before the doctor could beg him to put a shirt back on.

"Fancy a cuppa, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked, taking John by the hand and leading him down the hall to her kitchen.

"Er, actually, that sounds good, yeah," John said with a small smile, taking a seat at the little country table. "Sherlock'll be a while, I'm sure."

Mrs. Hudson bustled around, putting the water on and fixing a mug with an Earl Grey tea bag, so her back was to John when she said, "I'm so sorry about Mary, dear."

A dull ache in John's gut, one that he had been fastidiously ignoring all morning, reasserted itself with sudden ferocity.

"I... don't really feel like talking about it, Mrs. Hudson," John said quietly.

"There, there, dear," she said tenderly, pressing the mug into his hands and pouring the steaming kettle water over the tea leaves. She took the seat opposite him, and John was forcibly reminded of a very similar conversation now almost three years prior.

_Nope,_ he said firmly to himself as droplets of moisture began clouding his vision, _not thinking about that right now._

"You know," the small, mousy-haired woman said seriously, "I was in a rough place too, after my husband died."

"Mrs. Hudson..." John sighed. "Your husband ran a drug cartel. You said yourself he was relieved he was gone."

"That doesn't mean it wasn't _hard_," the landlady breathed. "I mean, there I was, stuck in America, my husband electrocuted... What's a woman to do?"

"Yeah, if you don't mind my saying so, this is a little different." John did not really mean to be snippy, but the semblance of a good mood that he had managed to solder together was cracking at the seams. "My wife is _dead_, okay? She got blown up by a psychopath serial bomber and -" the blond man tried very hard to ignore how shaky his voice had become. "- and I _loved_ _her_. We had our moments, but I _loved_ her. Still do, in fact."

"I know, honey," Mrs. Hudson said softly. "And I can't promise that it'll get any easier. But look on the bright side - at least you've got Sherlock back again!"

John chuckled darkly. "Too right. And sometimes I still wonder what I was thinking, taking up with that crazy bastard again after he -"

He was cut short when at that moment, Sherlock came striding into the kitchen. Except that it wasn't Sherlock. It was unmistakably James Larkin, a picture of whom Mycroft had shown them earlier that morning. Gone were the high cheekbones, the ridiculous, omnipresent collar-and-scarf combination, and even the flyaway jet curls. Instead, John found himself staring open-mouthed at a shorter, somewhat dumpy man in a suit with slicked-back hair, a round jaw, and... brown eyes?

"Colored contacts," Sherlock said shortly. How he had known what John was thinking the doctor couldn't imagine, but the shorter (although not now by as much) man found himself unreasonably glad that the detective was sticking to his normal voice at present. The complete change of appearance was unnerving in a way it probably should not have been. "You're going to have to help me with the voice," Sherlock continued, once again following John's train of thought with borderline-psychic accuracy. "My speech will sound different to me than it will to others, and I have to be accurate."

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked, clutching her chest and standing from her chair. "What are you doing?"

"It's for a case," he replied as he strode over to the still-stunned doctor, grabbed him by the wrist and started dragging him towards the stairs. "Don't bother with supper tonight - we probably won't be in!"

John shot a helpless look over his shoulder before resigning himself to being hauled up to their flat by the overgrown three-year-old.

Inside 221B, it was immediately apparent that Sherlock had dumped the entire contents of the living room's computer table on the floor to create room for a makeshift makeup stand, including, John was most distressed to see, his laptop. The detective prised this out from underneath a monolithic pile of assorted papers and plugged in his brother's USB stick, sprawling on the floor in front of the screen. A moment later, the folder containing the promised video feed opened, and Sherlock selected the first vid in the series.

The CCTV camera followed Larkin as he stepped out of the cab, zooming in as he stepped up onto the sidewalk. Watching over Sherlock's shoulder, John shivered slightly. It was creepy how much influence Mycroft Holmes had, knowing that he could track anyone he wanted to in London for any given length of time. The camera angle panned to the right as Larkin strode up to his front door. He pressed the doorbell, and the computer registered a distant _ding-dong_ - clearly, Mycroft's influence extended to getting above-average audio quality on his monitors.

The black front door opened, and a tall, reasonably pretty brunette stepped out onto the landing. She pulled Larkin into a tight hug.

"Hello, Jamie, darling," she said. "Another long one down in Whitehall?"

"Mmm," came Larkin's muffled reply as he leaned into his wife's hair. The camera zoomed in again on the couple, filling the frame with Larkin's face. "Ministers being complete arse-holes over this new social welfare bill. If the shadow PM would just get it through his head that we need the increased funding, I swear we could have the Welsh problem resolved in a month."

"Poor baby," his wife murmured, pulling his lips to hers. "Why don't you come in and have a cuppa? I'll get the roast in the oven."

The couple entered the house and the picture froze. Frowning, Sherlock pulled open the next video, and then the next. They were all very much the same. Larkin would return home, meet his wife at the door, kiss her, and complain about his day. All very simple and domestic. So why on earth was Sherlock looking concerned?

"John?" the detective asked, steepling his fingers under his chin as he reviewed the videos again.

"If you're worried about your voice, Sherlock, I'm sure it's fine," John assured him. "I mean, your disguise couldn't be better; just say you've come down with a bug or -"

"That's not it," Sherlock interrupted, matching Larkin's intonation with an exactness that was truly disturbing.

"Then what?"

"He kisses her. Every day."

John blinked. "...Yes?"

"If I don't kiss her, she'll wonder what's wrong."

Not sure he understood the problem, John just said, "Uh-huh...?"

"She'll follow me inside, wanting to know what's wrong. I won't be able to search the house."

"So kiss her," John said, still not understanding his flatmate's consternation. "You've kissed women before."

"_A_ woman," Sherlock emphasized. "And Janine already knew that I was... inexperienced."

John blinked again as the issue clicked into place.

"Oh."

Agitated, Sherlock stood up, pacing back and forth in front of the laptop. "I haven't the foggiest bloody clue how a man kisses his wife. This can only end in a disaster."

"Oh come on Sherlock, it can't be as bad as all _that_..." John said soothingly, trying to lay a hand on his friend's shoulder. Sherlock jerked away.

"It is that bad! If I don't kiss her, she'll think I'm upset about work, and if my kissing her seems even the least bit uncomfortable, she'll think she's upset me, and either way, she'll hound me until I tell her what's wrong. How do men put _up_ with women?" He sighed in exasperation.

"Heh, imagine," said John, attempting to inject a little humor into the situation, "a case depending on something as little as a kiss?"

"And you thought this was absurd befo-" Sherlock paused mid-sentence, giving John such a look of intensity that the doctor actually took a step backwards. "You had a wife."

"...Yes?" This time, something about Sherlock's expression indicated where he was going with such a pointed statement, and John took another step backwards even as Sherlock took one toward him.

"So you know what it's like to kiss someone you're married to."

"_Yes?_"

"So show me."

To say that John was surprised would have been untrue. He had had the sinking, stomach-churning, suspicion from the moment the detective turned to look at him that this was what he was suggesting. But John's lack of surprise did not stop him feeling like someone had just dropped a pile of bricks on his head, or from uttering a flabberghasted "What?".

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I am not a parrot, John. Pay attention. Of the two of us, you're the only one who has experience with time-dulled intimacy within the restrictive bonds that is marriage, but you haven't got the acting skills to play Larkin. Ergo, the only possible solution is for you to kiss me so I know how to kiss what's-her-name."

"Ashley," John said automatically. Everything seemed to be set on "automatic" all of a sudden. Sherlock wanted him to kiss him. That was... weird. Very weird. To his everlasting horror, John could feel his cheeks beginning to turn faintly pink.

"You're uncomfortable," Sherlock said. It was not a question.

"Well - well how am I supposed to feel?" John stuttered. "I mean, a bloke tells me to _kiss_ him -"

"For a case," Sherlock cut in.

"That doesn't make it less - less...!"

"Less what?" the detective asked, looking vaguely puzzled.

"Oh, for God's sake," John groaned into his hands. "I am going to regret this. Alright, come here."

Sherlock shuffled closer until he was nearly nose-to-nose with John, looking at him expectantly, as if this were just another one of his wacky experiments.

John noted distantly that his breathing rate had accelerated. _Nothing odd about that,_ he told himself. _Who wouldn't be worried about kissing their (male!) flatmate?_

Standing slightly on tiptoe, John put his hands on the other man's chest to keep his balance, and, closing his eyes nervously, pressed his lips to Sherlock's.

At first, it was unquestionably awkward; John could feel the tips of his ears turning bright red with embarrassment. Sherlock just stood still, rigid, like a board, and it was only after he felt a slight pang of disappointment that John remembered that he was kissing _Sherlock_, not Mary, and that if the man didn't like it, then it was his own bloody fault for suggesting such an asinine means-to-an-end to begin with.

_Bugger it._

If they were going to do something so off their rockers, then John wasn't going to bother beating around the bush. Sherlock needed data? Fine.

Mentally rolling his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck much like Mrs. Larkin had done in the video and pulled him closer. Sherlock made a small noise of surprise as his lips found themselves more forcefully crushed against John's own, but surprise failed to turn into objection, so John saw no problem in tilting his head to the side and opening his mouth very slightly. If John had been less distracted, he was quite sure that he would not have noticed something as strange as Sherlock's pulse starting to beat more erratically under his fingers. As it was, the doctor was certain it was the product of an overactive imagination.

Or at least, that's what he told himself as Sherlock tentatively wrapped his arms around John's waist.

The detective was pushing back against John's mouth with a ferocity that was arresting, and the doctor was beginning to wonder if maybe it wasn't an accident that Sherlock's teeth had caught his bottom lip when it also dawned on him that he was enjoying himself considerably more than was possibly appropriate. What would Mary say?

Feeling like someone had just dumped a bucket of cold water over his head, and meticulously ignoring that part of him that knew Mary would've just laughed and asked if she could watch, John relinquished his grip on the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled away insomuch as he could with the detective's lanky arms still wrapped around him. Sherlock looked neither disappointed or confused, a fact which John found very briefly upsetting.

"Er," John's genius brain supplied. "Well, that is to say, uh..."

The taller man still said nothing, just regarding the doctor passively.

"That was... probably a better demonstration of how couples kiss in the bedroom than on their doorstep," John admitted sheepishly.

Sherlock blinked, a tiny crease appearing between his eyebrows.

"Yes, I'd rather gathered that," the detective said.

"And you didn't say anything because...?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You didn't seem to mind."

"_That_ is entirely beside the point," John growled, extricating himself from Sherlock's embrace.

"It was a valid experiment. I had to make sure that the latex wasn't going to interfere. Your reaction rather indicates that it didn't."

"My _reaction_?" John said indignantly. "As I recall, this was entirely _your_ idea!"

"Yes, it was," Sherlock said smoothly. "So, objective one - check that latex is applied inconspicuously - is a success. Objective two - determine how best to snog Mrs. Larkin - not so much. You'll just have to kiss me again."

John choked on a lungful of air.

"You find the idea distasteful," the detective noted, crossing his arms pensively.

"Well," the doctor gasped, still coughing, "it's just that, as the rest of London seems to love to forget, _I'm not gay_."

Sherlock gave him a very strange look, somewhere between a frown and a smirk. "I know you're not gay, John," he said. "You're constant flirtations with vapid, boring women followed by your recent marriage and child prove that quite aptly."

"Then why," John said through gritted teeth, "do you keep asking me to kiss you?"

Sherlock's sigh was one of deep personal suffering. "Must I repeat myself? I thought we had already established that -"

"Oh, shut up," John groaned. "Just _shut up_."

Standing on tiptoe, the shorter man planted the sort of tender, chaste kiss he used to give Mary on Sherlock's lips. Then before the detective had time to do more than jump slightly, John stepped back. He felt an inordinate degree of pleasure in being able to still sometimes shock the self-proclaimed genius, and was that a blush on Sherlock's cheeks? A second later, he decided it had just been a trick of the light that had cast a nearly indiscernible red glow over Sherlock's altered features.

"That's how you do it, smart-ass," John said. "Think you've got it now?"

Slowly, Sherlock nodded.

"Good." John turned and pulled open the front door. "Then let's go. You've got a lady eagerly awaiting the application your new-found 'snogging' abilities."

A smile flitted across the detective's face.

"You're right - mustn't keep her waiting. Something about 'hell hath no fury' and whatnot."

And together they strode out of 221B.


	5. Subterfuge

Subterfuge

**JOHN WATSON**

The cab ride to the Whitehall district was nothing if not uncomfortable. Sherlock maintained a silence that, while perhaps not characterizable as stony, was unquestionably one that forbade interruption. The detective's silhouette framed in the window, John could see with his peripheral vision that Sherlock had forgone his usual practice of watching the London cityscape blur past, but rather had his gaze fixed on the cabbie's headrest in front of him. John was also staring straight ahead, though he suspected Sherlock was not having to exercise so much restraint to keep himself from turning to look at the cab's other passenger.

When they arrived at the expensive flat, Sherlock paused momentarily to check that his disguise remained immaculate, which, of course, it was. John moved to climb out behind him, but Sherlock held up his hand.

"You never know who might be watching," he said, holding his cell phone to his mouth as though addressing someone on the other line. "Take the cab around the block, then get out and wait at the café across the street. If I need you, I'll send a text."

He shut the door in the doctor's face and slid the phone back into his pocket.

"Sir?" the cabbie asked, turning slightly in his chair.

John sighed, aggravated, and said, "Around the block once, and then pull up by that café."

The driver nodded and started the engine. "I know it's none of my business," he said, "but that's kinda sketchy-like. You folks with the police or something?"

"You could say that," John replied, watching Sherlock in the cab's side-view mirror. Mrs. Larkin had by this time met him on the doorstep, sweeping him into an embrace. Sherlock bent over and kissed her soundly; as the cab pulled away from the curb, she ushered Sherlock inside, probably chattering about her day and what she was fixing for dinner.

John glowered, sinking angrily into the black pleather seat. Sherlock hadn't needed to kiss him - how hard was it to just press your lips up to someone else's? Apparently, the high-functioning sociopath found it difficult - or had he just been saying that? It would be so like Sherlock to humiliate him for his own amusement. John scoffed to himself. Well, if that had been his intent, the doctor had seen to it that it flashed in the pan. He'd definitely one-uped the detective when he snogged him. Indeed, Sherlock's moment of astonishment was the silver lining on an otherwise dismal rain cloud.

The cab, having completed its circuit around the block, came to a stop outside the small coffee shop. John thanked the driver, tucking into his wallet (again) to pay for the combined fare. He ducked under the red and white striped awning, ordered a cup of English Breakfast from the bored-looking girl at the counter, and sat at a booth next to the window where he could watch the flat where even now Sherlock was presumably doing his thing.

John rubbed his forehead, nodding to the girl when she set the cup and saucer next to his elbow. Sipping the strong tea, the doctor peered over the cup's rim. Across the street, a shadow passed in front of a window; was that Sherlock?

Holding the warm cup between his fingers, John frowned. It shouldn't have been such an issue, kissing the bloody detective. He'd kissed Mike Stamford once, when they were both totally smashed. Nearly everyone had a story like that - at _least_ one. Granted, both he and Sherlock had been sober, but it was for a case. The problem, John decided, was that he had enjoyed it. The doctor grimaced and swirled his tea.

He could be objective about this. Taking a deep breath, John gave himself a moment to sort out his jumbled feelings. Five minutes later, he hung his in despair, feeling just as confused as he had before.

_Fact: Sherlock was attractive._

Everyone knew that. Even Lestrade had commented on it once. Women could tell each other when they looked good, so there was definitely nothing inherently bent about John recognizing the fact that his flat mate was unsettlingly good-looking.

_Fact: John was not gay._

He wasn't. Despite having a penchant for frumpy jumpers and being a bit of a sentimental romantic, Dr. Watson most assuredly fell under the label of "heterosexual". He'd never felt the least bit of attraction to another man. Before that morning.

_Damn._

_Fact: He cared about Sherlock._

Of course he did. Sherlock was his best friend. If Mike hadn't introduced them, John probably would have shot himself later that same fateful afternoon. He liked the adrenaline high he got from chasing around London after serial killers and bombers and thieves and smugglers. He (usually) liked Sherlock's warped sense of humor, and (usually) found the eyeballs on the dining table amusing, even if it was also completely unhygienic.

All of that was relatively straightforward. The problem was in the final known variables.

_Problematic Fact A: John's wife died yesterday._

_Problematic Fact B: John seemed to enjoy snogging Sherlock like a stupid teenager._

Those two statements had no interest in reconciling themselves. On one hand, even the thought of Sherlock holding his waist and kissing him made his cheeks burn. On the other hand, Mary had died. Yesterday. Even if John was "legally emancipated," as Sherlock probably would term it, and could kiss whomever he pleased, that did not make it right. In fact, it was an insult to her memory that he was even having this discussion with himself. John groaned inwardly, setting his empty teacup back on the table.

It was then that he got the text.

_Meet me at the back of the flat. - SH_

* * *

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

Ashley Larkin met me at the black-painted-oak-wood-veneer-covered-aluminum-door-typical-for-London, wearing a knee-length-no-pet-hair-black-skirt and a clean-white-hand-ironed-by-the-dry-cleaner-so-they-are-wealthy-enough-to-live-here-and-aren't-just-putting-on-appearances-blouse. Judging by the faint smear of tomato-sauce-with-cilantro-and-mango on her wrist, I had caught her in the middle of preparing dinner (but-it-was-too-early-for-dinner-so-it-must-be-some-slow-cooking-dish-that-took-hours-of-preparation).

"Jamie!" she exclaimed, pulling me to her. I could smell the generic vanilla-scented-with-an-alcohol-base perfume she was wearing (nothing-intimate-in-anticipation-of-her-husband's-return-but-also-nothing-indicative-of-an-affair).

In the voice I had been mentally rehearsing, I smiled and said, "Hello, love." I also kissed her, attempting to replicate exactly in reverse the kiss John had given me, only slightly-less-impassioned-because-there-was-obviously-less-going-on-in-the-romance-department-here-than-at-the-Watson-residence. It must have come off alright, because she smiled (recent-visit-to-the-dentist-to-slow-an-ongoing-battle-with-a-history-of-cavities) and drew me inside. I was dimly aware of the cab pulling away from the curb. John would follow my instructions. He generally did.

The house was austere-and-expensive-so-decorated-to-impress-Larkin's-political-opponents-with-his-wealth. The front room had a plush carpet hidden beneath an Oriental rug (not genuine: too-low-thread-count), an imported-teak-wood-coffee-table, and a real-black-leather-settee. The television was a 130 cm Japanese model, and a high-end one, at that. All this and more my eye took in in 0.37 seconds.

"Were you going to change before dinner?" Mrs. Larkin asked, relinquishing her grip on my arm.

"I thought I might. I haven't had a change of clothes all night, after all." I kept my tone casual, with just a hint of annoyance appropriate to one who has been stuck at work on overtime.

The woman clucked reprovingly. "What are they thinking? Keeping you there so late? From what they told me, I was worried you might be out even later."

"We caught a lucky break." I pulled my overcoat off. "They finally managed to agree on - on the terms."

Mrs. Larkin's eyebrows arched at my slight hesitation. Interesting.

"What was going on, anyway?" she asked, the very picture of nonchalance. "The wanker on the phone just said there was a 'crisis'."

I chuckled offhandedly. "Yeah, it was a crisis, all right. Some national security crap."

"So?" she asked expectantly.

I hesitated, both as an actor and as a detective. What little I knew about Larkin from Mycroft's papers suggested that even if my brother found him inconvenient, the man was a loyal citizen. That being said, his wife was clearly used to wheedling information from him. How much could I say safely? And then I had it.

"There's... Well, to tell you the truth, there's been a kidnapping," I said quietly.

My "wife's" face held shock, but her eyes, briefly, showed triumph.

_Gotcha._

"Of who?" she asked, feigning innocent curiosity.

"Can't say," I told her apologetically. "It's all very hush-hush."

"Of course," she said smoothly. "Why don't you go change? I'm making those tropical pork chops you like so much for dinner."

Repressing the urge to say "I know," I reached out and took Ashley by the waist again, kissing her gently while I carefully fished her cellphone out of her back pocket.

"I missed you," I said, tucking the mobile up my shirt sleeve as I let her go. For a moment, she had the decency to look surprised, and then her face slid back into the mask of the good British wife. I nodded to her and strode down the hall to the stairs. The bedroom would be on the second floor, and that was, conveniently, both where I needed to go to "change before supper" and the most likely place to begin searching for evidence.

I did not bother sparing a glance for the other rooms as I passed them. The information they contained was irrelevant to this case. The door at the end of the upstairs hall was ajar, and led into a chic master bedroom. There was a (teak-with-ebony-inlays) desk in the corner under one of the two double-paned windows that framed the voluptuous (cotton-sheets-with-real-feather-pillows-on-a-mahogany-bedstead) bed.

I walked straight to the desk, rifling through the contents. Bills, tax forms, assorted receipts for innocuous household goods - nothing useful. I felt a buzz in my shirt sleeve and realized I was still hiding Mrs. Larkin's mobile. Irritated, I withdrew it, intending to toss it onto the bed, when my eye caught sight of exactly how the text message read.

I had never realized my face contained enough color to feel so big a drain when my brain caught up to what I was seeing. Hurriedly, I pulled out my own mobile and texted John.

_Meet me at the back of the flat. - SH_

I could climb out the window, and Miss Ashley would be none the wiser. Dropping heavily onto the bed, I opened her text messages (her first mistake: not keeping her phone password protected).

I reread the most recent message, breathing deeply through my nose.

It was from a blocked number.

_12:09 pm_  
_I'll have someone there in ten. - JM_

I looked at the time. It was already 12:10. I had nine minutes. John would be here in four, which gave us five to get to a place of relative safety. Four, if John asked questions.

I scrolled back up through her previous texts.

_11:59 am_  
_There's a cab out front, just like you said. Two men, it looks like, plus the driver. - AL_

_10:30 am_  
_You're going to get a visit later. Two men, one who looks like James. Play along. - JM_

_Yesterday_  
_9:46 am_  
_It's finished. - JM_

_Two days ago_  
_7:46 pm_  
_I'm fixing it as we discussed. And I'll have someone come collect in ten. - JM_

_7:32pm_  
_I've got the info you wanted. Ukraine election. Kiev. Call-collect for full account. Remember the deal. - AL_

I kept reading. There was a lot to go through. At the three-minute mark, I stood and pushed the window open, carefully popping the screen out of place and sliding it under the bed. No need to make the clean-up too easy for anyone. Then I grabbed tightly to the window sill and swung myself over, hanging precariously for a moment while I checked that I wasn't about to drop in front of any other windows. Luckily, that part of the wall was nothing but brick and siding, so I allowed myself to drop, landing on top of a large rhododendron bush. Anyone with some modicim of sense would be able to look at the bruised, broken leaves and know where I fell, not to mention the missing screen from the window above. Still, the plants absorbed most of the shock, so while I found myself rather scratched up, at least I had not twisted an ankle. I made my way across the yard, sticking to the paved garden path as much as I could to minimize tracks in the lawn.

John met me at the gate, eyes widening when he saw me, so I drew the conclusion that something about dropping from a second story window had probably dishevelled my appearance.

"You alright?" he asked, pulling a leaf out of my hair.

"Not for long," I said quietly. Grabbing his arm, I slipped out the gate and started down the sidewalk. "Your poor little Miss Ashley isn't quite so harmless as we were thinking. I doubt Mycroft needs to tell her James has been kidnapped - it appears that she set her husband up."

I could almost hear John's jaw drop and smiled grimly as I veered onto the lawn of a neighboring apartment complex. There was a tools shed on the side, and I could tell from the street that it was unlatched. Pushing John roughly inside, I climbed in after him and pulled the door exactly as shut as it had been before - open by exactly an inch and two eighths. It smelled of moldy-disuse-because-the-tenants-had-the-money-to-hire-their-own-gardeners, but it was in just the right spot to watch the Larkins' flat.

"Time?" I asked John, staring at the window I had jumped from.

"Uh... 12:17," he replied. _Two minutes left._ "Sherlock, what exactly is going on?"

"Ashley Larkin is working for Moriarty," I said. John's sharp intake of breath indicated that he now understood some of why we were hiding in a musty, abandoned tools shed. "According to the texts she has been exchanging, they have been in communication for about two weeks. She has been selling him government information supplied by an unsuspecting Mr. Larkin. Apparently, he liked to talk about his job a little more than is healthy for an MP. Moriarty set up James' kidnapping as a favor for Ashley in return for the information. Mrs. Larkin is a bit shallow - she suspected her husband was losing favor with people high up, so she had him offed. He's probably dead. If he isn't, he will be soon."

"Jesus."

"Mmm." I stood as close as was feasible to the door, watching the street outside for any activity.

"Sherlock," John said quietly behind me.

"Mmm?"

"We need to talk about earlier."

"Which part of earlier?"

"The part where you asked me to -"

"Shh." A cab had just passed by; possibly it was our welcoming committee come to say hello with a piece of lead and a large revolver.

"What?" John's question was sharp. Interesting.

"I told you - Ashley Larkin is trouble."

"But why are we out here?" he whispered, watching the flat opposite over my shoulder. The trepidation was apparent in his voice. "Shouldn't we be getting more evidence?"

I passed him Ashley's mobile. "Read the first text."

A moment passed as John unlocked the device.

"Oh."

"Indeed."

"So someone's going to -"

John's sentence (presumably about to end in something truly original like "just show up?") was cut off by a scream which was in turn cut off by a gunshot.

"Oh, shit," John breathed. "Sherlock, we have to -"

"There's nothing to be done, John," I said flatly. "She's already dead. This is one of Moriarty's hit men, remember. A hit man who will probably come looking for us in a second."

Right on cue, I could see the back door of the flat open and a tall, well-built thug stepped out, carrying a semi-automatic.

_Tan lines suggest military duty somewhere hot - possibly Afghanistan like John. Current occupation suggests a mercenary. Muscle development indicates advanced martial arts skill, and also a possible steroid addiction._

It wasn't Moran, but Moriarty's assassin still looked well-equipped to handle the gun he was hefting. I slipped my hand into John's jacket pocket, stealthily removing his Browning even as the doctor stared at the killer on the other side of the fence. The mercenary took in his surroundings judiciously, examining all of the nearby buildings with equal care. He was evaluating them, I realized, trying to figure out which one I would have fled to.

Then the man's eyes landed on our tool shed. He stared straight at me, and though I knew that the darkness and the door were more than enough to conceal us from sight, I also knew we were found out, all the same.

Ashley's phone buzzed in John's hand.

"It says 'Peekaboo'," he said, obviously disgusted.

"Tasteless," I muttered.

I could see the possible scenarios plainly in my head. If I shot him now, Moriarty would know without question where we were, if he didn't already. If I did not shoot, then the assassin would, and the wooden shed was hardly in any condition to repel bullets.

My plan was a poor one - I am the first to admit it. However, my number of options was also severely limited.

"On the ground," I said tersely.

John did not question the order, lying flat on his stomach. Perhaps he guessed what I was going to do. Probably. As I said, it wasn't ingenious, just unexpected. Unfortunately, that was as good as it was likely to get. I joined the doctor on the floor, pressing myself as close to the damp, splintery floor as I could.

Then the shooting started.

Dozens of bullets raked the shed at chest height - had either of us been standing, we would have been dead. I wrinkled my nose as I felt chips of wood falling down onto my hair. The second bullet stream was lower, closer to the ground, and I could hear John's nervous hiss as he shrank closer to me, covering his head and trying to flatten himself.

I was just thinking that maybe covering my head wasn't a bad idea when the shots petered out. Though the force of the shots had shoved the door the rest of the way closed, the wood was now so pockmarked with bullet holes that I could see clearly the dark outline of a man on the other side. I raised John's gun, aiming carefully. The door creaked open, and it was only John's exclamation of relief that stopped me from shooting detective inspector Lestrade in the chest.

* * *

**JOHN WATSON**

"Get in a little over your heads?" Lestrade asked, offering John his hand.

"I had things perfectly under control, thank you," Sherlock answered coolly, getting to his feet.

John took the DI's hand as Lestrade laughed and pointed at the ruined tool shed.

"You call this 'under control'?"

"Oh come, now," said Sherlock, smirking. "A little gunfire isn't _that_ unusual for the London PD, is it?"

"Sherlock, that bloke turned this thing into Swiss cheese."

"And if it would have been him opening the door, and not you, I would have shot him," the detective replied calmly, handing John his gun.

John stared at the small firearm.

"Christ!"

"Not quite," Sherlock said with a small smile.

"No, seriously though," John said, turning to look at the detective. "How the _hell_ did you get a hold of this without me noticing?"

"You were a little distracted by the gunman," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "It wasn't very hard." He frowned at Lestrade. "What are you doing here, anyway? I don't recall calling the police."

"You didn't," Lestrade said shortly. "That one did." He nodded at John. "Bloody good job, too, or else we might have two bodies instead of one."

"Three," Sherlock corrected automatically, peering over the DI's shoulder to where the assassin was lying face-down in the grass.

"Pardon?"

"The mercenary shot a woman in the house approximately a minute before he came looking for me."

Lestrade swore. "Why didn't you say something sooner? We could've called an ambulance!"

"No point," the detective answered, still sweeping the corpse on the lawn with his eyes. "The man you shot is a trained killer - Ashley Larkin was dead before she hit the ground. Possibly it's just as well. She did have Moriarty kidnap, and theoretically murder, her husband."

The detective inspector had gone slightly slack-jawed at this retelling.

"Wait, hold on," he said. "Moriarty is behind this?"

"Of course," Sherlock sniffed. "Wasn't it obvious? He's probably watching us right now. I imagine he expected this to happen - that would be why he sent Tweedle-Dumb instead of his pal, Moran. Didn't want his boy toy getting shot."

"Er, Sherlock..." John said, "there's a bit of a problem, isn't there? We know Moriarty did this, but if he's dead," John nodded at the assassin, "and she's dead," he nodded at the house, "then how do we find out where Moriarty is? I don't think we're any further now than we were this morning."

Sherlock snorted. "You are correct in one respect, John: you certainly _don't_ think. We are most assuredly farther in our investigation than we were when you got out of bed."

"Care to elaborate, then?" Lestrade asked.

"Moriarty practically led us here. He thinks he's playing cat and mouse, but with the help of some of the evidence we found today, it should be only a matter of time until I work out where he's holed up."

"What evidence are you talking about, Sherlock?" said John. "I mean, granted, I only showed up in time to get shot at, but from what you told me -"

The detective brushed him off. "There is plenty to be observed, if only one actually looks. Take our friendly cadaver here, for instance." Sherlock stepped around Lestrade and strode to where the gunman's corpse had collapsed. "The detective inspector's team was lucky - they drove up behind him and he was intent on making you and I full of holes, so he didn't realize the danger. It was Lestrade who shot him, since Sally usually does the driving, and the detective inspector's gun is a different model from hers, so the wound looks different to the trained eye."

"Right as always," the DI nodded, pulling out a cigarette. "Any idea who he is?"

"Not presently," Sherlock admitted. "No special tattoos that I can see, nor does he match the profile of any of the 457 world-class hit men of which I am aware. Probably he's nothing more than your run of the mill hired mercenary. I'll have Mycroft look into it. At any rate, who he is isn't nearly as important as where he came from."

"Because if he came from wherever Moriarty is hiding out, and you can deduce the location, then we know where Moriarty is hiding?" John asked, kneeling next to the body.

"Precisely," Sherlock said with satisfaction.

"So can you?" Lestrade asked. "Deduce his location, I mean."

"This second? No." Sherlock carefully pushed the dead man onto his back. "There's too much information to consolidate at once. I need to gather what I can here and then sit in my mind palace for a while, preferably _without_ distraction." He looked meaningfully at John.

"_I'm_ distracting?" John asked incredulously. "I don't make a habit of shooting holes in the wall or exploding beakers in the microwave or reenacting murders in the bathtub or -"

"I know that," Sherlock said calmly, examining the bottom of the gunman's boots, scraping off a soil sample and capping it in a plastic canister. "But you can be distracting nevertheless. Attempts at conversation. Crap telly. Tapping away at your little blog."

"Sherlock..." said Lestrade, a hint of warning in his voice, perhaps recognizing the murderous glint in John's eyes.

"Right, got it," the detective said, ignoring both the other men on the scene. "Call a cab."

"Call one yourself," John muttered, but he started down to the street anyway.

Sherlock was already talking to himself about the contents of his soil sample when he joined the doctor on the street corner.

"Obvious organic content... Water-saturated, but then it has been wet today..."

He slid into the cab without so much as a word to John, who followed after a moment's hesitation on the sidewalk. The detective's taciturn nature all the way back to the flat did nothing to lessen John's mounting frustration. No matter how uncomfortable the conversation, Sherlock was not going to evade the question of what happened that morning by being even more rude and antisocial than usual, nor did the present crisis mean he had the right to act like as much of a prat as he damn well pleased.

The cab car pulled to a stop outside of 221B, and, eager to begin experimenting, Sherlock was halfway through the door before John even managed to climb out the back seat. The doctor trudged to the door himself, hands buried in his pockets. Inside, ascending the stairs, he found the door to their flat hanging on its hinges and Sherlock inside, running around like a madman as he carried boxes of laboratory equipment to the kitchen table.

"Where did you get all that?" John asked, ducking out of the way as the detective marched past with a flask of 5.0 molar Hydrochloric Acid in one hand and an equally strong bottle of Sodium Hydroxide in the other. "I swear I've never seen half of this stuff before. And since when do you own a... whatever that is?"

"Atomic absorption spectrometer. And I don't. I'm borrowing it from Molly."

"Borrowing it?" John looked quizzically at the large machine now sitting where the microwave had been that morning.

"Well, I'm not planning to keep it, so it counts as borrowing."

"She doesn't know you took it, does she?"

Sherlock coughed and did not reply, instead dividing his soil sample into a half-dozen smaller petri dishes. John leaned against the doorframe, watching as his flat mate measured out a milliliter of the basic solution and distilled it before pouring it over the first dish. The detective then placed a pH paper on top of the dirt, watching it turn blue green.

"So the original sample was weakly acidic," he murmured aloud, reaching for another instrument.

John chose that moment to speak.

"You can't ignore me all afternoon."

Sherlock did not even look up as he scrawled "silty" on a notepad.

"I'm not ignoring you."

"But you are evading my question."

"What question?"

"What I was trying to talk to you about before we nearly got shot to death?"

The detective paused as though thinking a moment. Then he said, "Nope. Must have deleted it."

John sighed aloud, tucking his hands under his armpits as he leaned more heavily on the wall.

"I was asking you about this morning. The... _kiss_. What was that about, really?"

This time, Sherlock's stopping was not an exaggerated pantomime. In fact, for an instant he looked decidedly discomfited.

"You know it was for a case," he said, turning to look at John, his expression unreadable.

"Because the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't figure out how to kiss a girl?"

"As I told you," he replied, turning to glare at the stove instead, "relationships aren't really my area."

John frowned. "So you expect me to believe that in all your life you've never snogged anyone before?"

He could practically hear the eye roll when Sherlock answered him. "Plenty of people choose to remain celibate, John."

"Yeah, a nun might," the doctor chuckled. "And I asked if you've snogged someone before, not about your sex life."

"I never really understood the point," the detective said, turning back to putter with his little dishes of earth. "What could possibly be pleasing about having someone shove their tongue down your throat? Especially since I can tell _exactly_ where it's been."

"Endorphins," John argued, caught up in proving, once and for all, that kissing did have merit. "But the physical sensation isn't the sole point, Sherlock. It's about -"

"Yes, John, fascinating. I know you seem to think that constant lectures on sentimentality might cause some of it to rub off on me, but as a high-functioning sociopath, I really don't care. Leave me alone, I'm working."

John blinked rapidly, struggling to contain his hurt feelings.

"Yeah, alright," he said quietly. "Have fun working, _alone_. I'm going to... go read a book or something."

Disgusted, the blonde man exited the kitchen in a huff, going to his room and dropping onto the bed. He tried to distract himself, flipping through his copy of _The Art of War_, but when he came to the realization that he had reread the same paragraph three times and still didn't know what it said, he gave up. It was blatantly unfair that Sherlock had such a knack for getting on his nerves. He couldn't even go get a pint at the pub by himself unless he wanted to risk getting drugged, shot, kidnapped, blown up...

The list continued, and John was exhausted just thinking about it. Throwing the novel on the floor, the doctor paced to the window, peering out the curtain at the quiet Baker Street below. He wasn't going to think about the detective, he decided. He would focus on finding Moriarty. He let his forehead rest on the cool glass, purging his thoughts of Sherlock and imagining instead how good it was going to feel to wring Moriarty's sorry neck.

Then as John let the curtain fall back into place, he groaned quietly, wondering who he thought he was kidding.


	6. And Old Lace

Sorry this chapter took an eternity; I had a lot of research I had to do to make sure that it was moderately coherent from a scientific perspective. Contains implied slashiness and a lot of stream-of-consciousness!Sherlock.

* * *

And Old Lace

**JOHN WATSON**

**Sunday Morning**

It was pitch dark outside and someone was shaking him.

John rolled over with a grunt of discontentment to find Sherlock bent over him, curls bouncing and his face alight with the familiar glow of the detective on the scent.

"Are you awake?" Sherlock whispered hoarsely.

"No, I'm sound asleep," John groaned, "because that's how I like to be at - God damn, Sherlock! - two in the bloody morning. Get _off_."

Sherlock dropped onto the end of the bed, pulling his knees up under him like a crouching bird of prey.

"Sleep is boring, John," he said. "Get up. I've found something."

The doctor rubbed his bloodshot eyes, dragging himself upright enough to glare blearily at the other man.

"This had better be good," he warned, "or else I _swear_ -"

"I know where Moriarty is," said Sherlock. John shut his mouth. "The soil sample. It was comprised primarily of water-saturated silt-sized particulate matter. Moreover, the percent organic content was unusually high. According to the tensile strength and arrangement of the plant fibers, they originated in various native grass species, Golden Dock especially."

"So some sort of a bog?" John asked, frowning.

"A _marsh_, John," Sherlock moaned, as if the distinction should have been transparent. "A bog would be too acidic for most horticultural life forms."

"Alright, so a marsh," the doctor said impatiently. "Which doesn't narrow it down especially."

Sherlock's lips quirked mischievously, and he leaned in like a schoolboy telling a secret. "On its own, no, it doesn't. But the tests also pulled up some other very interesting compounds. Tell me if these mean anything to you: diphenylamine, ethyl centralite, and nitrodiphenylamine."

"Those are all explosives!"

"Quite," the detective-turned-chemist nodded. "And the tests found unusually high concentrations of lead and zinc."

"Gunfire," John breathed. "Are there any marshes around London that have seen battle?"

Sherlock snorted. "Doubtless most of them have at some point in history. We need to determine a more specific time period. The sheer volume of explosive agents means that the place in question was home to something more significant in scope than a mere afternoon's skirmish, while the use of lead puts the end date of the site's military use no less than fifty years ago. Couple with that the soil type and plant matter, and we know exactly where Moriarty has ferreted himself away."

The doctor stared blankly at him. "We do?"

"Of course! Isn't it obvious? Rainham Marshes!"

"The nature reserve?" John asked incredulously.

"Yes! Before it was converted into a modern, environmentally conscious research site, it housed a military firing range. The old facilities are all still there."

"By why would Moriarty pick somewhere as ridiculous as a _nature reserve _to hide?"

"Please, John. Plenty of reasons. It's out of the way, hard to navigate for anyone not sticking to the hiking trails - and they all conveniently skirt the military base, by the way - and it is overall an ideal place to set a trap for a doctor and a consulting detective."

"Oh, he's trapping us now?" said John, crossing his arms. "I thought the point of the exercise was for us to get him, not the other way around."

Sherlock brushed this aside. "He anticipated his gunman getting shot; naturally he'll have set things in order such that we go right where he wants us. The trick is in our knowing it's a trap and being cleverer."

"And are you?"

"Cleverer than Moriarty?" The detective did not even have to consider his answer. "Certainly. I, for one, am spending the night in a comfortable flat whereas he is camped in some dismal breeding ground for mosquitos. That by itself indicates intellectual superiority."

"Yeah, alright, Sherlock," John yawned. "And, speaking of 'spending the night', how about you go back to your room so that I don't fall asleep while we're investigating the aforementioned mosquito breeding ground."

"Ah. Yes. Of course."

Sherlock's hand was on the door when he turned around and said, "Good night, John."

He got nothing more than a muffled snore in reply, but when he made it out into the hallway, he was smiling.

* * *

**JOHN WATSON**

**Sunday Morning, Some Time Later**

As if being woken by Sherlock wasn't to be enough, John slept poorly after the fact. The sunlight beginning to filter in under the curtains was not helping matters. Thus it was that John Watson found himself awake and alert at the ungodly hour of 6:00 in the morning.

Sherlock, predictably, had not slept, but he had at least made the effort of changing clothes and taking after some personal grooming. The doctor found him in the kitchen, packing lab equipment back into boxes that were "appropriated within the boundaries of the law, John".

When Sherlock finished, he looked up at John and surprised him, saying, "Let's go out for breakfast."

"_You_ are going to eat breakfast," John restated skeptically. "Two days in a row? I've got to call a pastor - that has to be one of the signs of the apocalypse."

"Even I can recognize the dangers of chasing Moriarty down on an empty stomach. Once we launch our investigation, who knows when we'll have time to eat again? So yes, we're going to breakfast."

"Alright," John grinned. "But you're paying."

In lieu of one of the farther cafés, the detective took John back to Angelo's, which John privately felt was more out of a disinclination to pay than it was an objection to distance. The restaurateur provided complimentary meals as per his usual (ones which were, in truth, quite tasty), and also according to custom set a flickering tea light on the table between the blonde man and his flatmate. John's mouth twisted in annoyance, but for once did not try to tell Angelo that he and Sherlock were not partners. This omission was not missed by the detective, who sat forward and folded his fingers under his chin, gracing John with yet another of his intense periods of staring.

"It's rude to drool," John commented, resigning himself to carb-laden lasagne for his breakfast. The doctor in him couldn't bring itself to approve, even as his mouth started to water.

"You're the one nearly drooling all over your plate, not me," Sherlock said unblinkingly.

"It's rude to stare, then," John amended. "Eat your lasagne."

Sherlock immediately cut into his pasta. In retrospect, John knew he should have realized that such easy acquiescence was a bit too suspicious.

Indeed, a moment later, Sherlock looked back up and said, "You didn't tell him to take it. The candle."

John shook his head. "I am _not_ having this discussion with you."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll try to read too much into it."

"Worried I'll figure something out?" the detective said cheekily.

It was obviously meant in jest, but that didn't stop John's temper flaring. "You don't _get_ emotions," he snapped. "You'll draw entirely the wrong conclusion. I'm just sick of arguing with Angelo over it, okay?"

"Alright." Sherlock's tone had gone from friendly to cool in a flash, and John was immediately contrite, though he tried not to show it. Truth be told, he really wasn't certain what it was about the detective's words that had rattled him so badly. He _was_ tired of trying to explain to people that he wasn't dating Sherlock. That was all there was to it. And if their live-in relationship was more strained after yesterday morning, that was to be expected. It would pass. He ignored the back corner of his mind that was quietly reliving the memory of Sherlock kissing him, because he definitely did _not_ want the detective as anything more than a flatmate. That was all there was to it.

Typically, Sherlock chose that moment to derail his train of thought.

"John," he said quietly. That one soft word froze the doctor's breath in his chest.

"Yes?"

"There's something else I figured out last night."

John slowly set his fork down on the table. "What is it?"

"The other crimes. The ones that didn't seem to have any correlation to each other."

"What about them?"

"I was looking at a map of London when I figured out that the pattern of the crimes makes an 'M' across the city."

"'M' for Moriarty," John sighed.

"I thought so, too, at first," the detective said. He looked almost guiltily across the table. "But I doubt he would be so obvious. It's 'M' for 'Mary', John. Or 'W' for Watson, depending on which map you use. I _knew_ that I had been missing something - maybe if I could have connected the dots faster, she would still be here."

"Sherlock," John said quietly, reaching across the table to take the detective by the hand. "Even you can't predict the future. There was no way you could have known in advance what Moriarty was spelling out." Sherlock still looked upset, and John didn't like it. He began rubbing small little circles on the top of the detective's hand, wondering if the sociopath in him would be in any way calmed. At first, the detective's fingers jerked away at the contact, but a moment later he seemed to relax into it slightly. John didn't know whether it was the gentle touch itself that eased some of Sherlock's barely concealed dis-ease or simply the novelty of it, but he was glad all the same to see some of the customary, curious glint return to the other man's eyes.

Angelo returned to their table then, and John quickly removed his hand, feeling the tips of his ears again turning red. The burlier fellow decided to go the diplomatic route and not comment, instead handing John another glass of water. Next, he turned to Sherlock.

"Some bloke just walked in and asked me to give you this," Angelo said, handing the detective an envelope. "Dunno who he was," he continued as Sherlock frowned at the cardstock and used his fork as a letter-opener. "He came in, handed this to me, and left before I looked up."

Extracting the note from inside, the detective gave it a once-over before choking on an inhalation and reaching across the table to knock John's drink out of his hand.

"Sherlock!" John said indignantly. "What was that for?"

"How much of the water did you drink, John?" Sherlock asked frantically, entirely ignoring a now-bemused Angelo. "How many milliliters?"

"Uh..." said John blankly. "I - I don't know. Fifty, maybe? Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Wordlessly, the detective pushed the letter across the tabletop. With mounting agitation, the doctor scanned the memo. His stomach felt like it was falling, splashing his insides, a sensation that he fervently hoped was due to his sudden terror and not because of something _else_.

The note read as such:

_Might want to stop John drinking that water. Oops, too late. - Jim_

John looked up, his eyes wide.

"What did he put in my drink?" he asked.

* * *

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

"What did he put in my drink?"

John stared at me as I struggled to keep my face from reflecting the same horror that was written across John's own expression. My mind racing wildly, I looked him over for any hint, any clue of what Moriarty had done now.

_Obvious pallor, presumably a result of sudden shock. Heavy breathing, also a potential side effect of trauma. Too many variables, analysis incomplete._

Even as I was opening my mouth to admit I had no idea what Moriarty had given him, John stood abruptly.

"I'm going to be sick," he managed, before bolting for the bathroom. In an instant, I was out of my seat, for once made to chase him instead of visa versa. I ignored Angelo's exclamation behind me, and reached the bathroom just in time to watch John vomit the contents of his stomach across the bathroom tiles.

"Attractive," I said sarcastically. "So you're throwing up. How do you feel?"

"Like someone shoved a knife through my insides," my flatmate said with teeth clenched.

I knelt beside where he had collapsed, feeling his forehead with the back of my hand. _No fever._

"I need you to be a little more medical in that analysis, doctor," I said, keeping my voice as clinical as possible. "Describe your symptoms to me _exactly_."

John gave me what approximated a glare but which quickly turned into a grimace as he retched again.

"_Fine_," he growled. "My stomach and intestines feel like someone stuck a knife through them."

"That's never happened to you; you can't possibly know that that's an accurate comparison." I was speaking mindlessly, my mouth spouting the vague thoughts running across the upper echelons of my consciousness as I sifted through the contents of my mind palace.

_Castor oil - too lethal. He'd be dead already._

_Cyanide - wrong symptoms. He's pale, not red, and he hasn't fainted._

_Atropine - still wrong; he's not hallucinating. Yet._

"Do you have any ideas what it might be?" I asked him. The possibilities were too numerous. Vomiting? Stomach pain? The same conditions could indicate any number of poisons.

_Find more data. Narrow the field of probabilities._

"I'm a bloody _doctor_! I don't work for poison control!"

My hand went automatically to my phone, plugging in the number for an ambulance.

_The toxin was dissolved in water - a polar molecule._

"Did your water taste strange?" I asked. John leaned heavily on me, his breathing ragged.

"No different than it usually does here."

_Tasteless_.

"Don't panic," I told him, looking him right in the eyes. "Moriarty won't want to kill you yet."

John shuddered violently as a convulsion ran through him.

"You... sure about that?" he gasped.

"...No," I admitted.

_Vomiting-stomach-pain-convulsions-water-soluble-polar-tasteless_-_what?!_

Then I had it.

_Arsenic_.

"John," I said quietly, insistently. "You've been given arsenic. I've called an ambulance already. It shouldn't kill you; you didn't drink much of the water, and arsenic's LD50 is 14.6 milligrams per kilogram."

John groaned softly. "God, I feel awful."

"I know. Come on, let's get you cleaned up." I stood and pulled John to his feet, settling him where he could rest his weight on the bathroom sink. Running water over a piece of paper towel, I wiped the bile from the corners of John's mouth, then held him in place as another wave of tremors overtook him. Outside, a siren blared, and I managed to repress a sigh of relief.

"Why did he do this?" John murmured in my ear. "He could've killed me - why not have done with it?"

A shiver of my own swept through me at his words; they had evoked a tangled mess of emotions, and I didn't know what any of them meant. I didn't like not knowing.

"He's making a point," I murmured back. "It seemed safe so long as you stayed close to me. He's reminding us that he can have you killed anywhere, anytime, even when I'm right next to you."

Just then, Angelo rapped on the bathroom door.

"You in there, Sherlock?" he called. "It's only that I've got a whole mess of paramedics out here and -"

"Well, send them in!" I snapped. "John's been poisoned!"

"What?" Angelo gasped. "But -!"

Wrapping John's arm around my shoulder, I pulled the both of us up. He was shaking consistently now, and skin that had been too cool was now burning through his shirt. I knocked the door open, bypassing a dumbstruck Angelo, and bundled John into the arms of a nonplussed nurse.

"Acute arsenic poisoning," I told her sharply. "Ingested. It was dissolved in his water."

Angelo had apparently overheard enough of this exchange to worry about his own culpability in the drama.

"His water? How could that have -"

"You had nothing to do with it, obviously," I said, rounding on the distressed restaurant owner. "Your new kitchen boy, on the other hand, will have split after doing what Moriarty was paying him for."

Behind my back, I could hear the paramedics taking John out to the ambulance.

"Moriarty?" Angelo's eyes were like dinner plates; he knew the name. Who didn't?

"Moriarty," I agreed grimly. I turned on my heel and followed the medics out the door, climbing into the back of the emergency vehicle. One of them suggested I take a cab instead; I said something about how he should just tell his wife he found her unattractive. They left me alone after that.

John was lying on a stretcher, eyes closed as he fought against the toxin in his system. I held the hand nearest me, trying to soothe some of its ceaseless trembling. It was an eight-minute ride to St. Bart's. We would make it. John would make it. He had to.

* * *

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

**That Night**

Sea-foam-wall-paper-covered-in-thousands-of-tiny-ridges sheathed the walls, trapping in the Lysol-chemical-sterile scent that was ubiquitous throughout most of St. Bart's. The maestro and metronome of the mechanical symphony, the clock, ticked steadily above the door. I stared straight ahead at the textured wall across from me, listening to the cacophony of machinery that was a hospital room.

There was the steady beeping of the heart rate monitor. John's pulse was steady. That was good.

There was the whir of the dialyzer which had spent all afternoon filtering arsenic out of John's bloodstream. The doctors hadn't let me sit in during the hemodialysis, even after I carefully articulated every conceivable reason I deserved admittance and rebutted each of their weak objections with a thoughtful examination of why their logic was faulty.

There was the steady gurgle of the water purifiers, which had kept John hydrated during the dialytic procedure, and the low buzz of the computer monitoring the intravenous tube in my flatmate's arm. This was full of Dimercaprol, which would theoretically neutralize the remainder of the arsenic he had ingested.

I knew that if I looked at him, he'd be asleep, relaxed and presently untroubled by nightmares in a drug-induced slumber. He hadn't been given a respirator, as his breathing was strong, and the convulsions had stopped during the dialysis. He was fine. The nurse said John would be well enough to leave tomorrow, though he would have to return as an outpatient in three day's time to check that the recovery was going smoothly. So why was it so hard to look down at the bed next to me?

_Sentiment,_ I decided. That was the only explanation. Granted, it was an extremely implausible one where I was concerned, but when all other explanations have been eliminated, whatever is left, however implausible, must be truth. It wasn't that there was a physical injury to find visually unappealing, nor would looking at John wake him or cause him other distress as it sometimes seemed to when he was awake. The opposite wall was by no means an engaging object at which to stare for three hours. Thus, it had to be due to some derivative of sentiment that I found it difficult to look down at my comatose friend.

So sentiment, then. I didn't like emotion; it was unpredictable, volatile, and had dangerous effects on one's judgement. It was only logical to sift through these feelings, to sort them out, categorize them so that later I would be able to identify properly correlations and causations. John and I were friends. He had overreacted when I faked my suicide, which in retrospect was perhaps predictable even if it was illogical, but that was, according to my understanding, the sort of thing friends did when someone died. He'd gotten over it.

John had shot people in my defense, and I had in turn rescued him from Chinese crime syndicates, large explosives, and every variety of lesser criminal in London. That seemed to be, while perhaps not the sort of track record most friends kept, still a continuation of the vague parameters I had long labelled "sentiment" and pushed to one side. Nailing down the corners of those parameters, dissecting what could only be termed "feelings", was more difficult than I had given it credit for. Simply because I didn't _need_ affection surely didn't mean that I was incapable of understanding it if I felt it bore me some relevance.

I took a breath, centering myself. John understood emotions. He was only marginally more observant than the rest of the sheep surrounding me, and his ability to derive meaningful deductions from what he saw was sorely lacking, but while he was _useful_ for his medical knowledge, what made him _invaluable_ to me was his grasp of why people act as they do. I could pick apart the "how" of it in an instant - a marriage turned sour, a bad childhood, a history of illness - but while I could tell Lestrade that a cabbie poisoned people to protect his children, John empathized with the paternal emotions that inspired the crime and with the victims' terror at their position. I didn't. I couldn't.

Or at least, I had always believed I couldn't.

I followed the threads of my thoughts, untangling them, restoring order to the only corner of my palace that I left neglected. John had called me his "best" friend before his wedding. That indicated that he felt his connection with me was stronger than his relationship with his other friends. I did not recall his ever mentioning shooting a man to defend Stamford, so this seemed like a sound conclusion. To say that John was my best friend would be a misnomer. More properly, John was my only friend. Mrs. Hudson was like the conventional mother I never felt I had, and having Lestrade around seemed much akin to how Mycroft felt around me (id est: like having an annoying, dim-witted little brother), but John was beyond that. He stood alone, on a pedestal, not above me, but not beneath me, either. He just _was_. And I respected him.

This was what most people would have termed an epiphany, though I made it a point to not subscribe to such fanciful ideas of revelation and self-discovery. Nevertheless, there was something profoundly unsettling about realizing that I recognized John as my equal, even though he could not come close to matching my intellect. Moriarty and I had a mutual esteem of each other that bordered on wary admiration, but it was not really respect. How John had earned as much from me I could not yet determine.

And then there was that bizarre undercurrent of tension that had been a ubiquitous presence since the inception of the Larkin case. There was no need to analyze potential causations; the impetus was obvious. John had been uncomfortable ever since I had had him kiss me, and I was uncomfortable with his being uncomfortable. What was it about John's awkwardly dancing around the subject that knocked my internal homeostasis off-kilter?

John did not want me mistaking him for being gay. Possibly this was a defense mechanism to suppress a latent tendency toward homosexuality, but I had to doubt the credibility of such an assumption. More probably, John was concerned that I was gay, and that my request (made in the name of justice) was an attempt to "come on" to him, which was as fallacious as it was ludicrous. Clearly, my flatmate's preoccupation with sentimentality was obfuscating his ability to recall that I had no such compunctions, and, had I felt like a demi-romantic relationship would prove reciprocally beneficial, I would have simply made the proposition rather than attempt to subtly win him over with ineffective subtleties.

Yes, clearly, John had forgotten about that. And yet, he had still agreed to do it. In fact, he had been rather enthusiastic -

I paused in my reflection as I took note of a hitherto unrecognized phenomena: I was actually feeling a bit... warmer than the standard 37 degrees Celsius. My first thought was to feel my forehead; my body temperature did not seem to be above normal, and indeed, even as I sat there, the sensation faded. What had provoked such a reaction, I wondered.

I had had a similar experience yesterday, I remembered suddenly. John had kissed me, and my face had felt hot. Interesting. Was it something about physical contact that inspired psychosomatic sensations? I considered this. It seemed unlikely. Granted, my experience with touching other people was minimal, but I had never noticed any such correlation before when shaking hands or expressing a similar mode of greeting. Hand-to-hand combat caused one to feel hotter, but that was a direct result of muscle respiration and expenditure of energy. So it seemed that the strange wash of heat that kept assaulting me was a result of the kiss and the recollection thereof.

There was a simple enough way to test that hypothesis. I settled back into my chair (white-plastic-uncomfortable-designed-to-make-visitors-leave), closed my eyes, and replayed the memory.

_John leaning forward, coloring, embarrassed, disgruntled, his lips soft, pliable, roughened slightly by exposure to sun. His mouth moving against mine, even as his hands pulled me against him. Pulse racing, leaning into it -_

My eyes burst open. It took but a moment to make preliminary observations: shallow breathing and an accelerated pulse were obvious. This certainly confirmed my initial supposition - the memory of John's touch was enough to simulate a physical response. It also seemed to suggest an explanation. Rising, I moved hastily to the dark window, looking over my reflection in the glass.

As I had suspected, my pupils were dilated, though they were even now returning to normal. Exhaling slowly, I turned back around, facing the hospital bed, and leaned against the window sill, letting the cool glass press against my back. There were but two reasons I was aware of for one's person to experience a heightened pulse rate, breathiness, and pupil dilation all simultaneously. Fear was definitely not the reason in this case.

_So _that _was what physical desire felt like_, I thought faintly. _How curious._

I traced the outline of John's face against his pillow with my eyes. He appeared healthier than he had earlier, but there was still something drawn-looking about his features. A different sensation spread across my middle - was that _protectiveness_? If I didn't find a way to remove myself from the situation quickly, I would get in over my head. With a sense of deep unease, Mycroft's words came back to me. I felt now perhaps I understood better his intimation.

_Have fun 'not being involved'._

_Oh, bugger._


End file.
